


























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































Class --P 2T- 3 

Book .... j 

Sa, 

Copyright N° ; / 


COPYRIGHT OEPOBm 
















{ 

THE 

SAD ADVENTURERS 

A NOVEL 

BY 

MARYSE RUTLEDGE v, 

Author of “Children of Fate” 

' ^■1)1 X. ■ V , . 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
MCMXXIV 


C 






T /(2 





% 


Copyright, IQ24, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 

Copyright, 1921, 1922, 1923, 1924, by 
Maryse Rutledge 


All rights reserved 


Printed in the United States of America 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

Honeymoon . 

PAGE 

I 

II. 

Sad Adventurers . 

. . . . 26 

III. 

Big Game 

63 

IV. 

The Lost Verona 

114 

V. 

Brassington Hall 

157 

VI. 

Something Cheap 

197 

VII. 

Glamour 

230 

VIII. 

Home .... 























✓ 










THE 

SAD ADVENTURERS 


CHAPTER I 

HONEYMOON 

I 

S HE was unbelievably happy. It was like get¬ 
ting up early on a beautiful morning and 
looking forward to a day of gifts, of sur¬ 
prises; a day that need never end. This was the 
way one should feel, of course, with a new and won¬ 
derful husband, and a new and wonderful life un¬ 
folding its brilliant vistas far into desirable lands. 
Europe! She was going to Europe to live—she, 
Anita Moffett of Stamford—no, Anita Brassington- 
Welsh from now on. Forever and ever. 

Somewhere, among the shifting pattern of the 
crowd in the cavernous dusk of the pier, her mother 
and friends were straining to catch a last glimpse 
of her. As they saw her now on the verge of depar¬ 
ture, so would they think of her for months to 
come—radiant, fortunate, sheltered by the tall 


2 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


soldierly figure of her husband. But would they 
ever discover her where she stood on the upper 
deck leaning over the rail with Hal beside her? 

She seemed already removed from them, a 
stranger about to sail away on this immense exciting 
ship; a little woman of golden lights, her wide lips 
parted, her green eyes brilliant with adventure, and 
the gay green of her new travelling costume spring¬ 
ing like a young plant in the sun. A bunch of violets 
at her breast made her aware of farewells. 

It was good to feel this man at her side; to feel 
so close to her his ruddy face with the dark, dashing 
sweep of moustache, the smart black and white 
check of cap and coat. 

“There’s the mater, Nita, on the left next to the 
scrawny old bird with the flag. See her?” He was 
gleeful as a boy. “Hello there—hello!” His voice 
boomed out. 

“Where, Hal?—I don’t see—” She was crush¬ 
ing her poor violets against the railing. There was 
something poignant about those upturned faces 
below; the sway of arms and heads, the flutter of 
handkerchiefs; of flags like leaves in a wind trying 
to be bright, trying to speak, trying to express all 
that had not been said. It must be hard to be left 
behind. Such a queer little pain like hot wires 
slowly twisted through her heart. Hal’s big hand 
rested on hers. It only made the pain worse. 

Yes, there was her mother in the grey suit she 
had bought especially to see them off. But how small 


HONEYMOON 


3 

and lonely she looked, how unlike herself. It was 
the grey, of course. The first time her mother had 
worn any color since her father’s death. 

And there was Miss Lacy. They would go back 
to Stamford together on the four o’clock train. Oh, 
and there were the Lucas girls, and the Burlins, at 
whose house in New York she had met Hal—was it 
only two months ago? 

Her dear, brave mother trying to smile. 

Smile! Wave back at the little group. She 
would see them again soon. She would come back. 
And then her mother would visit them as soon as 
they were settled in Brassington Hall. What fun 
that would be ! Silly of her to want to cry. 

“Oh, I say, Nita, buck up, dear girl. Every¬ 
thing’s quite all right, you know.” He was bending 
over her. His arm was around her. 

She knew that. Everything was gloriously right. 
But it was as if a thread so slender, so fragile that 
she had never before realised its existence, had 
thickened into a chain of many links fastening her to 
that shore, to the house in Stamford which she could 
see every time she shut her eyes; fastening her to 
her mother and to something more intangible which 
she had not valued enough—her youth. Never the 
same again—never. 

Voices were flung like streamers from decks to 
wharfs, enclosing them all in a web of farewells 
that spun thinner and thinner, breaking, strand by 
strand, as with a din of whistles and steam, the rattle 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


4 

of chains, and pound of engines, the inexorable 
moment was upon them. 

“Good-bye—good-bye—be sure to write-” 

“Good-bye—best of luck-” 

“Good-bye—don’t forget-” 

Slowly they were moving, backing out. The dark 
water widened. 

“Off at last!” Hal sounded relieved. Of course 
it wasn’t his country, his mother, his friends. 

On the open end of the pier, coloured specks clung 
under the hot June sun. Smaller and smaller, 
dwindling- 

And here was she standing in her new clothes 
beside her new husband, crying like a baby. Not 
fair to Hal. There was so much to see, too—the 
harbour, the boats, the skyline in that vivid morning 
light. Joy came back to her, curling her light lashes, 
her lips. “Oh, Hal, it’s wonderful!” 

As she trotted along the deck, she was conscious 
of eyes looking her over, looking Hal over. She 
lifted her head to sparkle at him, and felt him sleek 
and glistening beside her. He had a way of pro¬ 
jecting himself into the foreground of a picture. 
There was something large and lavish about him, 
a sonorous quality that carried, especially when he 
was explaining things to her. 

“Friend of mine, Lord Bardell, crossed on her 

maiden trip. He told me-” 

Perhaps his voice was a trifle loud. A tall woman 
with a hooked nose and dangling earrings was star- 







HONEYMOON 


5 


ing at them and whispering to her companion, a stiff 
pinkish man. They looked English. 

“Hal, aren’t those people English?” 

But he had swaggered ahead to talk to the deck 
steward. You hardly noticed his slight limp except 
when he was tired. And anyway, she reflected, a 
game leg was very distinguished. 

Trunks—people; people—trunks, in the narrow 
corridors down which presently he led her. Smells 
of salt, and rubber, and fresh paint, and a dull 
throbbing of engines. 

She was glad to get back to their cabin with its 
real beds, and the polished gleam of its adjoining 
bathroom. The porthole on the promenade deck 
was open. It was all so light and large and gay. 

How good he was, how thoughtful! The inti¬ 
macy of the room quivered through her. His trunk, 
her trunk, their bags together, and soon all their 
belongings out and mingled on the dressing table. 

He stood beaming down at her. “Jolly, isn’t it?” 

Someone knocked on the door. He laughed as 
she started away from him. It was only the steward 
with boxes of flowers, baskets of fruit, books, tele¬ 
grams. What fun it was! She saw herself in the 
mirror of the wardrobe, a flushed, happy little 
woman, slim with the promise of gracious curves, 
golden-green as a jonquil in the sun, her wide red 
lips winging upwards. 

And now the door was shut. A great shyness 
came into her heart, a tenderness that exalted and 


6 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


humbled her. She turned and ran to him, and hid 
her face in the rough-feeling stuff of his coat. He 
smelt faintly of tobacco, of leather. 

She clung to him fiercely, closely. “Please love 
me—please always love me, Hal.” 

“God knows I love you. If I didn’t—” How 
strange his voice sounded, low and almost stern. 
She raised her head. He was looking over her, 
beyond her. His arms around her tightened. 

She wasn’t afraid. All their life together- 

2 

She wondered the next day how long that life 
would be! If only those wicked clamps would 
loosen their hold on her poor head. They seemed 
fixed at the back, adjusted to a maximum of torture, 
as if some malignant spirit were tightening the 
screw, slowly squeezing her brain to a pulp. 

The rest of her, attached to that tortured head, 
lay limply on the bed, aware of every movement, 
every sound. Hal, poor dear, meant to be quiet. 
But he was such a big, hearty creature, and he had 
so very much to tell her about the extraordinary 
weather, the jolly good fellows he was meeting, and 
how he wished she felt better, and wouldn’t she drink 
just a wee nippie of champagne? 

She could hardly open her eyes to see him as he 
stood there in the mornings scrubbed and shining, 
his splendid moustache setting off his high colour. 



HONEYMOON 


7 

When he bent to kiss her, it made her a little dizzy 
because always about him there seemed to linger 
whiffs from the smoking room. 

He spent a great deal of his time in the smoking 
room. 

She liked to lie with closed eyes during the long 
evenings thinking of him amusing himself among 
men. When the pain in her head receded for a 
while, she drifted into such beautiful dreams of the 
future. Could she ever live up to Brassington Hall? 
If his father and mother had lived, would they have 
loved her? She was so much younger than Hal. 
But then twenty-four wasn’t so very young. And 
after all—forty-four wasn’t really old. 

To the lazy dip and roll of the ship, and the 
sound of voices outside, she evolved pictures, images 
of herself, presiding over that ancient pile of stones 
which stood for Hal’s family. How little, after all, 
he had told her of himself! But she knew. She 
knew already, in her heart, the fair English country¬ 
side. It flung out its smooth lawns and terraces 
before her; its English roses bloomed in the gardens, 
and there were deer and peacocks, and she and Hal, 
arm in arm, walked down endless avenues hedged 
with yew. 

And then the pain would come back, and Hal 
would creak in, sit down on the edge of the bed, 
light a cigarette, and talk about a man called 
de Lancey Kane, with whom he had grown very 
chummy the first day out. He was always talking 


8 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


about this Mr. Kane, who, it seemed, came from 
the Middle West, and spent most of his time crossing 
and recrossing the ocean just for the fun of it. 

A singular manner of enjoying oneself, she 
thought. But if Hal liked him- 

Hal did like him. A good sport, a great hand at 
bridge, and yesterday he had won the pool. He and 
Hal seemed always to be playing games of some 
sort. There were little parties in the cabins of 
other men, and Hal would come jubilantly back to 
her displaying his winnings. 

“Four pounds. Not so bad—what? Here, old 
girl, they’re for you to buy something with in Paris.” 

“You’ll spoil me, Hal.” But she liked being 
spoiled. 

Then suddenly late one afternoon, the pain in her 
head went away, and she decided to get up for 
dinner. She was absurdly weak, and, dear me, how 
pale she looked! Perhaps the tiniest touch of rouge 
would help. It made her feel so deliciously guilty 
to be putting on rouge. But yes, it really was be¬ 
coming, and with that borrowed brightness, her eyes 
could afford their languor. A white dress to-night, 
the soft chiffon one that showed up the golden lights 
of her hair. Hal would be pleased- 

He was pleased. He stopped quite still in the 
doorway, his dark eyes twinkling under his tufted 
brows. “Oh, I say, you do look rippin’, my dear!” 

He was handsome enough, himself, in his evening 
clothes, a long-limbed, highly polished, highly 




HONEYMOON 


9 

coloured military gentleman. And, even if she did 
feel a bit wobbly on her feet, delight flowed through 
her as, gallantly, he flung about her shoulders the 
soft white cape which completed her costume, and 
told her again how absolutely topping she looked. 

Together they went out into the clear evening air. 
She would have liked to linger on deck watching the 
deepening blue of sky and sea, the long glistening 
rolls of water edged with foam. But a cocktail, 
Hal said, was just the thing. And a cocktail seemed 
inevitably associated in his mind with the pleasant 
company of Mr. de Lancey Kane. Apparently the 
smoking room was the one place where this new 
friend might be found. 

Hal, with the genial spark of fellowship in his 
eye, guided her there. And sure enough Mr. Kane 
was waiting. 

She did not like Mr. Kane. He was too perfect, 
too slim and glistening. She didn’t like the shape or 
colour of his eyes which lay like oysters in a shallow 
plate. One felt the ice under them, and his skin 
was the bluish white of a shell. Nor did she like 
the feel of his long white hand. He subtly missed 
being obtrusively common. It was because he really 
wasn’t that one wondered where he had come from 
and how he had managed to acquire such pleasant 
ways. 

He was pleasant, very pleasant, with just the right 
note of diffidence in his welcome. “How delighted 
I am to meet you at last, Mrs. Brassington-Welsh,” 


10 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


he said. “Our little circle is now complete. I’m 
sure the Major agrees with me.” 

But “the Major” was too busy ordering the 
drinks to agree with anyone except the steward, 
whose chummy attitude implied, she thought, that it 
was Hal’s magnificent custom to pay. It became 
him and it evidently suited Mr. Kane. 

“Here’s to my wife, the finest little woman in 
the world.” Hal raised his glass. “I’m a devilish 
lucky man—eh what, Kane? Nothing like her in 
England.” 

Horrid stuff, cocktails. She made a little face as 
she took a sip. 

“I certainly envy you, Major.” Mr. Kane’s smile 
seemed rather odiously to curl around her. 

The atmosphere of men, the little glasses, the 
jaded smell of all the cigarettes and cigars that had 
been consumed in that room, turned her faint. How 
could those other women at adjoining tables stand it? 

She sat on smiling at the two men. She smiled 
as the pain in her head began again. 

But Hal was enjoying himself. He was launched 
on the subject of pools and cards. It seemed to her 
as if Mr. Kane with too clever gestures of his narrow 
white hands were flattering him overmuch about 
his skill and his winnings. 

“Hal, I’m afraid—I’ll have to go out.” She 
must have looked her discomfort, for he was at once 
on his feet helping her up. 

“Excuse us a moment, my dear fellow.” 


HONEYMOON m 

Mr. Kane’s concern hastened their departure. 
Oh, but she was glad to breathe the sweet fresh air, 
glad to nestle in the rug which Hal laid out over 
the steamer chair, glad to be alone with him in the 
gathering dusk. 

Stupid of her to give in like this. But she couldn’t 
possibly, not even for his dear sake, face the dining 
room. The horrid din of the gong sent a shudder 
through her. She felt very pathetic in her white 
finery, very feminine and helpless. 

“Hal, dear, will you forgive me if I don’t come 
down with you? If I can have a bit of dinner 
here-” 

Of course he would forgive her. Devilish shame. 
Anything else he could do for her? He bent to pat 
her on the shoulder. 

She watched him swagger away. How lovely the 
sea with night slowly drawing over it and the stars 
blossoming like a field of jonquils. She felt deli¬ 
ciously lazy and relaxed. She sat white and gold 
and dreamy with the tray on her lap the steward had 
brought. People drifted by. 

There was a slight bustle as the deck steward and 
a maid carrying rugs and cushions attended to the 
comfort of a tall woman who was settling in the 
next chair. 

Why, it was the English lady with the hooked nose 
and the earrings who had stared at her that first 
day. She was staring now, but into space. Her dark 
cloak and the light scarf which shrouded her hair 



12 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


somehow lent her the familiar air of a Stamford 
matron starting out for a party. But there the 
resemblance ceased. Her long thin profile looked 
very, very English and rather terrifying. 

Would it be indiscreet to talk to a stranger on 
shipboard, especially when you and that stranger 
were seated side by side in the intimate dusk of 
evening? Suddenly, she wanted to talk to someone. 

“This is my first trip. It’s very exciting to go 
over for the first time.” She leaned forward, a little 
wistful and very young in her white gown and cape. 

“Indeed!” 

Of course the English were that way—reserved, 
very formal until you got to know them. “You’re 
English, aren’t you? My husband is an English¬ 
man.” 

This time the lady turned and looked her over 
with a not unkindly china-blue eye. “Really!” 

Oh, dear, would all those people, Hal’s friends, 
be so standoffish? “Perhaps you know my hus¬ 
band’s name—-Brassington-Welsh—Major Brassing- 
ton-Welsh?” Her smile was a bright enough ques¬ 
tion to draw a civil answer. 

“Brassington-Welsh—” The lady pronounced it 
thoughtfully. 

She wasn’t going to be snubbed by anyone. “It’s 
a very old family. Brassington was my husband’s 
mother’s name, and Welsh his father’s. But the 
estate is Brassington Hall.” That would show her. 

It seemed indeed to show her something, for there 


HONEYMOON 


13 


was a perceptible thaw in her manner, and the china- 
blue eye now seemed to be regarding a possible new 
acquaintance. “The name is familiar. You’ll be 
living in England then?” 

“Oh, yes! But we’re going to Paris first. I’ve 
always wanted to see Paris.” 

Just when they were getting on so nicely, a stiff¬ 
shouldered figure strolled toward them. It was the 
pinkish man who, as he approached, threw out a 
friendly— “How are you now?” 

“Quite all right, thank you.” The lady hesi¬ 
tated. “Mrs.—Brassington-Welsh was telling me 
about her husband’s place—Brassington Hall, didn’t 
you say?” 

Well, it wasn’t the way they did things at home. 
But she supposed it might be considered an introduc¬ 
tion, a one-sided one which the Englishman acknowl¬ 
edged with a bow. 

“Brassington Hall,” he repeated as if it conveyed 
something to him. “May I ask in what county?” 

How stupid of her! Of course she knew, but 
just for the moment she couldn’t think—and here 
she was blushing like a school girl. “I’m afraid I 
don’t remember-” 

Even if he were a little stiff, you felt that he 
could twinkle humanly. She liked the straight, 
serious look he gave her as if he were understanding 
her youth and inexperience. Very different from 
Mr. Kane. If only Hal would turn up now- 

And then he came, hurrying, not noticing her com- 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


H 

panions, only seeing her. “I got Kane to dine with 
me. Hope you haven’t been lonely.” His shirt 
front gleamed, his face shone ruddy in the electric 
light overhead. 

“Indeed, I haven’t been lonely.” Her smile 
played brightly over the group. “We’ve been talk¬ 
ing about Brassington Hall. I couldn’t remember 
what county-” 1 

Why, what was the matter with him? He and 
the pinkish gentleman eyed one another, and stood 
like men of wood. Constraint was in the air. 

Oh, well, if they wanted to be formal! “May I 
present my husband, Major Brassington-Welsh?” 
She waited for the murmured names which finally 
enlightened her—Lady Forbes, Colonel Annersley. 
Followed a pause so brittle that it had to break. 

She broke it a trifle nervously. “Hal, dear, where 
is your place ?” Brassington Hall was the raft upon 
which they might all safely climb and drift toward 
the shores of their England. 

But Hal, for once, didn’t seem eager to drift 
anywhere in company. “In Surrey.” His tone was 
curt. And his hand went to his moustache as if to 
assure himself that it was still there. 

“Ah, indeed! Surrey—” The Colonel’s stare, 
she thought, was a shade insolent. “Happen to 
know Lansmere? I stopped with him last summer. 
I think he mentioned Brassington Hall.” 

Hal gave him back the stare. “Lansmere was a 
friend of my governor’s.” 



HONEYMOON 


15 


“Ah, yes! But I understood—” Whatever the 
Colonel understood he suddenly decided to keep to 
himself. 

It was too bad of Hal to act in this unsociable way 
before her new friends—people who would know 
now who he was. But there he stood without saying 
a word. It made him look too heavy when he drew 
his brows together; it clouded the usual handsome 
good nature of his face. 

Meanwhile Lady Forbes had grown visibly more 
gracious. She was really quite pretty when she 
smiled. “I have quite a number of friends in 
Surrey,” she said. “No doubt we shall run across 
one another.” 

“I do hope so.” She was beginning to like Lady 
Forbes. “Hal, how long do we stay in Paris?” 

But he had stepped to the deck railing to study 
the sky. He turned with a sudden brusqueness. 
“It’s a bit chilly for you, don’t you think?” 

If it were chilly, he and Colonel Annersley were 
responsible. But her animation, and the courage to 
renew it, had slipped from her. “Perhaps we had 
better go in.” Her smile was mechanical as she rose 
from her chair. 

The Colonel’s clear grey eye, fixed on her as he 
stepped aside, seemed to hold a message which she 
couldn’t quite make out. It was a swift and deeply 
searching look which she met, standing beside Hal 
with her head held high. Of course she couldn’t be 
friends with anyone her husband didn’t like. And 


i6 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


yet she felt oddly reluctant to leave as Lady Forbes 
murmured a friendly good evening. 

Hal didn’t speak to her. What could she have 
done to offend him? It was the first time, the very 
first time she had ever felt so miserable. She 
glanced up at him as he stalked along the deck, and 
the little hurt in her heart burned at the injustice 
of his mood. They were dancing in the big saloon. 
She loved dancing. There were groups of people 
talking to one another, strolling about or watching 
the dancers. The music made her want to cry 
because always before it had meant light-hearted 
rhythms, light-hearted chatter and the swaying 
movement of dance in a partner’s arms. 

She moved slowly, passing it all. Going to bed. 

And now the door was shut and they were alone 
in their cabin, and the tears came. She stood there 
in her pretty white gown and cape, feeling that 
really, really, he hadn’t been kind. 

Then she was in his arms and he was fiercely lov¬ 
ing her. He was telling her that he had been a 
brute but that it was all over now. 

“I thought you’d like them, Hal. I thought-” 

But he didn’t want to talk about them. It was 
all right. Everything was all right. 

She was glad to be tucked in bed and to lie very 
still. And she didn’t mind in the least if he left her 
for a while to go and play a little game with the 
odious Kane man. Only she wished he wouldn’t. 

“I half promised Kane and two other chaps to 



HONEYMOON 


17 


take a hand to-night—” He stood over her very 
big and humble. 

She wasn’t going to be the kind of wife who would 
ever hold back her husband. “Do go, then, Hal 
dear.” 

“I won’t be long,” he promised from the door. 

She lay back listening to the noises, the creak and 
groan, as of uneasy ghosts roving through the ship, 
the footfalls, the sound, rather felt than heard, of 
the sea. 

Marriage. Love. You played with these things 
in your mind, and then when they came, they were 
not at all as you imagined them. They were made 
up of little disappointments, betrayals, surrenders. 

Hal hadn’t meant to be rude. He hadn’t meant 
to hurt her. He would never willingly hurt her. 

3 

Hal wouldn’t explain why, on this brilliant morn¬ 
ing of their last day, he preferred to mope in the 
cabin. When she, herself, proposed the smoking 
room before luncheon, he only grunted and flopped 
over on the bed, where he lay smoking cigarettes, 
and flipping ashes on the floor. And right after 
breakfast the steward had brought him a bottle of 
Scotch. The smell of it, somehow, poisoned for her 
the beautiful morning air. 

She had counted so on this last day of blue skies 
and sea. But there was no pleasure in going out 


18 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

alone, and there was always the danger that Mr. 
Kane might attach himself to her for a morning 
stroll. She felt self-conscious about being seen with 
Mr. Kane, particularly by Lady Forbes and Colonel 
Annersley who, beyond a polite nod now and then, 
had not sought a closer acquaintance. You couldn’t 
blame them after Hal’s brusque behaviour of the 
other evening. 

She wouldn’t have minded if only he had told her 
what was the matter with him. He assured her that 
nothing was the matter. But she knew better. Her 
little sigh, as she turned the pages of her book, im¬ 
plied that she was being very patient indeed. 

The knock on the door came as a relief. But 
when, at her bright invitation, the door opened and 
the Kane man stepped in, she had only time for a ges¬ 
ture of surprise and annoyance before suddenly Hal 
sprang to his feet— “What d’you mean by coming 
here?” 

His voice startled her. Something had obviously 
happened to change his friendly attitude toward Mr. 
Kane. Of course he had no business to intrude and 
Hal knew how much she disliked him. But even 
that couldn’t quite explain the tense moment pre¬ 
ceding Mr. Kane’s murmured:— “I beg your 
pardon, Mrs. Brassington-Welsh. I must speak to 
your husband.” 

Hal wouldn’t let her answer. His face frightened 
her, it was so red and fierce. He towered in front 


HONEYMOON 


19 

of her, his hands thrust in his pockets as if they were 
safer there. “Get out,” he roared. 

But Mr. Kane did not get out. He stayed by the 
door, his shallow, oyster-coloured eyes fixed on Hal. 
Somehow his polished surface seemed to have 
thinned, so that one caught uneasy glimpses of the 
man beneath it all,—the man she distrusted. 

“I would rather have spoken to you alone, 
Major,” and he looked at her before softly adding, 
“the Captain wants to see us.” 

“He does, does he?” Hal’s voice was lower, 
harsher. He strode over to Mr. Kane, and his 
hands still in his pockets, his head thrust forward, 
he stood there glowering. “Well, I’m not goin’— 
understand? It’s your own rotten business. How 
dare you come near me after last night?” 

What were they talking about? What could have 
happened last night? “Hal, dear, please—please 
Mr. Kane—” She felt hot and sick with the sense 
of outraged privacy. 

Mr. Kane raised his long white hand. “One 
moment, Major.” And then he turned to her. You 
could see now that he was nervous, struggling to 
keep his poise. “I think you should know, Mrs. 
Brassington-Welsh, that there was a little trouble 
last night. Your husband and I-” 

Hal was upon him before she could speak. “You 
dirty blackguard. Leave my wife out of it.” He 
had the man by the shoulder, was hustling him to 
the door. 



20 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“You ask your husband about that little game 
last night.” His voice reached her thin and 
venomous as Hal pushed him out and slammed the 
door. 

But ugliness lingered in the air as Hal whirled 
around, his face and eyes congested. “Damn the 
fellow’s impertinence! I’d like to wring his crooked 
neck. I’d like-” 

“Hal, what happened last night?” It was her 
right to know. She was no longer a child to shrink 
from unpleasantness. But she couldn’t help feeling 
young and rather helpless as she faced him with a 
brave show of composure. 

He avoided the pleading of her eyes. “Oh, 
nothin’!” 

“Hal, something did happen. You’ve got to tell 
me.” Her hand was on his arm, her face lifted to 
his. “I want to share everything with you, Hal. 
You must never keep anything from me.” She made 
him look at her. Yes, he must see how deeply, 
deeply in earnest she was; how love to her meant 
just this—this sharing. 

He looked and turned his head away, as if he 
couldn’t bear what he saw. “You’re so sweet—I’m 
not fit—” And he broke loose from her. 

“Hal, what do you mean ?” Now she was startled 
to the very roots of her being—straight and quiver¬ 
ing as a golden flower in a wind. 

“What do I mean?” He swung around, his hand 
fumbling at his moustache. He looked at her again, 



HONEYMOON 


21 


and staunchly she met his eyes. So they stood rock¬ 
ing a little to the sway of the boat. 

She smiled with a tremulous curl of lip. “You 
big goose to say you’re not fit— What happened 
last night? Tell me that first.” He might as well 
realise that his Nita always, always got what she 
wanted in the end. 

“Hang it all, I’ll tell you then.” But it seemed 
hard to begin. 

She sat down and waited. 

The cabin was too small for him. He paced back 
and forth, a big nervous man frowning with those 
thick black brows. He stopped to light a cigarette, 
and his hand, she noticed, trembled. 

“You’ve heard of professional gamblers, of 
course,” he burst out at last. “Well, that’s what 
Kane is. A low-down crook, too. And—well— 
they caught him at it last night in a fellow called 
Noland’s cabin. We were playin’ with his pack of 
cards. He’d pin-pricked the face cards—under¬ 
stand? And Noland—” Now that he was started, 
he couldn’t stop. 

She imagined the hot smoky cabin, the men drink¬ 
ing and playing. Red, excited men. Hal and Kane 
winning—Hal and Kane- 

“But, Hal, you’ve got nothing to do with it.” She 
sat up brightly indignant. She would have blotted 
out the picture if she could. 

“They wouldn’t believe me,” he raged. “Con¬ 
found ’em. Why, that chap Noland said-” 




22 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


She saw it all. She saw it as he blurted out the 
end of the wretched story. She heard the angry 
voices, saw Kane slender and pale letting Hal take 
the blame with him. Major Brassington-Welsh and 
Mr. Kane always partners, always winning— Yes, 
Kane had used Hal. 

“What could I do?” Hal groaned, tramping to 
and fro. “Oh, what an ass I’ve been! What a 
blighted ass!” 

Barriers down. Hal talking to her like this. 
Man to man, comrade to comrade. This was life 
at last, not as she had dreamed it, but infinitely 
dearer. It made her feel shining in his defence, 
like generous young steel leaping from its scab¬ 
bard. 

She was up and beside him. “Hal, we’ve got to 
do something. You can’t let anyone in this world 
believe-” 

“We’re docking to-morrow,” he muttered, and 
as if he were weary of the whole ugly business he 
sank down on the couch. Lit another cigarette. “I 
shouldn’t have bothered you. It’s just my rotten 
luck-” 

“Bothered me!” She flew to him. She felt so 
tremendously alive now, so challenged for his sake. 
And oh, how she hated Kane! “Listen, Hal, we 
can’t let this go. I have it—” She did have it with 
the rush of inspiration. Why, it was so simple. 
Those men hadn’t believed him because they didn’t 
know who and what he was. His own fault, of 




HONEYMOON 


23 


course, for taking up with Kane on the boat. But 
suppose someone who did know who he was vouched 
for him. Suppose a man like Colonel Annersley 
went to the Commandant! An Englishman, a com¬ 
patriot, who obviously had placed Hal through 
Brassington Hall and that friend of Hal’s father, 
whatever his name was. 

What if Hal hadn’t liked him or Lady Forbes? 
People who after all belonged together stood to¬ 
gether, didn’t they? If there had, for instance, been 
anyone from Stamford on board, and she Nita 
Moffett had got into trouble, wouldn’t she have 
gone to them at once ? 

“Listen, Hal dear, if you won’t ask Annersley, I 
will.” She knelt beside him, tilting back her head, 
and that sense of life, that beautiful life awakening, 
seemed to run and ripple from eyes to lips. 

And then he looked at her so strangely. And 
all of a sudden the cabin grew very silent and there 
were only the sounds of the ship and the sea, as if 
something immense and relentless were carrying 
them on. The light of the afternoon was like a large 
blue eye in the porthole. She thought of Kane and 
the Commandant who wanted to see Hal. “Please 
let me—please.” 

“I can’t, Nita.” He said it as if she had dragged 
it out of him. Under the tender weight of her arms 
as she knelt there, she felt his knees stiffen, contract. 

“You can’t? But Hal, Annersley knows-” 

“Yes, he knows.” How slowly he spoke! And 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


24 

his face—! Why, he seemed to be asking something 
of her. She had never realised him before, never 
realised his eyes could look so world-weary, never 
known that his mouth could have that bitter, that 
forlorn droop. 

“I don’t understand. Why can’t you, Hal?” 
She knew that her own face had changed in a mo¬ 
ment when the rustle of the sea came to them. 

“I can’t,” he said, “because—well, you’d better 
hear it now.” 

She moved a little away from him, not that she 
didn’t want to be near him, but that she wanted him 
to be free to tell her. Gravely she watched him, 
feeling, learning- 

He drew a deep breath and straightened his 
shoulders. 

“Annersley knows,” he said. “I didn’t dare tell 
you. My father threw me out when I was a boy. 
I don’t own Brassington Hall. I’m what—Anners¬ 
ley would call a rotter.” 

Didn’t own Brassington Hall—didn’t own it! 
Lied to her. Still on her knees, rigid, not moving, 
she stared at him. 

“But I swear I’ll buy it back, Nita. I’ve got a bit 
of business on now. Sure thing. Meant to get it 
all fixed up and ready before we—” And then he 
broke down. He sat there, his hands over his face. 
His whole life had been like this wretched Kane 
business, everything against him. Then he had met 
her and—well, now he had something to work for. 



HONEYMOON 


25 


Get back Brassington Hall. Question of a few 
months. But Annersley would be against him like 
the others. No good appealing to him. Nothing 
could happen, except what had happened already. 
Better let it go. 

Didn’t own Brassington Hall. Everyone against 
him. Hadn’t dared tell her. Why? Because he 
loved her so. Hal this way, sitting with his hands 
over his face. She was bowed and broken with him. 
Then the strange new feeling came. It was like a 
pain. It drew her to her feet. Her cheeks were 
wet. Her arms reached out to him. His head— 
there—on her breast. Brassington Hall 1 Later— 
later. 

“You’ll stand by me, Nita?” 

This big man calling to her. And the beautiful, 
the strange pain grew within her. 

“I’m with you, my dear, my dear.” 

And then he went on, telling, telling. 


( 


CHAPTER II 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

I 

W HY, after all, should she care? Why, in 
the passing of years had she held on to 
the bits of faith left to her? Hal had 
long ago forgotten that night when she had put her 
arms around him and forgiven, promising to stand 
by him in the cleaner, brighter future. 

She had fought for that cleaner, brighter future. 
Fought in vain, it would seem. It was as if a mist 
had gradually obscured her vision, getting in between 
her and the old clear-cut standards. Bad luck. That 
was Hal’s answer whenever things went wrong. She 
had come to accept it. It was what she did accept 
that made her despise herself. But what was the 
use of self-contempt in the life she had, if not chosen, 
at least suffered to become hers ? When you loved a 
man—in spite of everything—you grew in with him. 
Your best was his; his worst was yours. So it was 
with them. 

Love. Pity. Yearning. And then not caring 
because she cared too much. It was really the caring 
that counted. 


26 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 27 

At first she had been fascinated by Paris and 
Cairo, Monte Carlo, Biarritz, and the strange out¬ 
skirts of the world through which they had hazard¬ 
ously wandered through the war—always moving 
on when English consuls grew inquisitive. Hal’s 
papers had been all right, of course; right enough 
to avoid definite trouble. He had explained to her 
why he wasn’t in the army. Honourably discharged 
years ago—and then his game leg. 

There had been a terrible day shortly after 
America came in, when she had actually tried to 
drive him out; when she had entered into a blind 
fury against this great good-natured hulk of a man, 
this boaster, this coward. How bitterly she had 
wept when he pretended to take her at her word! 

Enlist? That very day. He had only kept out 
of it for her sake. But what would become of her? 
She could have gone home to her mother, she sup¬ 
posed, leaving him to die. Sometimes she wished 
she had done just that. 

Too late. Those years had taken from her what 
no other life could give back. Hal was fifty. And 
she- 

She felt old enough to-day. There was another 
hole in her last pair of silk stockings, the ones Hal 
had given her in Paris six months ago, when the 
Rawston boy paid up. She sat down to her mending. 
Every day before she could go out it was the same— 
mean little repairs, mean little tricks with ink and 
cleaning fluid, mean little juggling with needles and 



28 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


pins. The hem of her skirt was ripped; a rusty 
cigarette burn showed in the bodice. For to-day 
she could hide that with a bunch of violets Monte 
had given her. Her head ached. Hal and Monte 
had talked late into the night. The room still reeked 
of their cigars and whiskey, and it was really too 
damp to open the window. Hal was out now with 
Monte and Crawford. She must look her best when 
she met them later at Doney’s. Poor old Hal! He 
had his hands full this time. Crawford was no such 
fool as young Rawston. 

The hole was over the heel, the very worst place, 
where the frayed edge of her slipper would rub and 
rub. Every step a rub. She was like the stocking— 
giving from use, deftly patched where the pressure 
came. What ailed her to-day? She hated every¬ 
thing. She hated the large, stagnant room, from 
which the grandeur and ghosts of past Florentines 
had retreated, disdaining to haunt such a cheapened 
place. Pension plush—traps for dust. Dingy 
ornaments, a shabby red carpet on the tiled floor. 
The inevitable bottle of whiskey and yesterday’s 
Daily Mail on the table beside a grubby ash receiver. 
Hal’s spotted dressing gown trailing over a chair. 

The windows stared with tired old eyes at the 
sluggish Arno, the mud banks, the Ponte alle Grazie. 
December mist hung between the hills, filling the 
valley as a bowl with smoke. A few tourists strayed 
along the livid quays, their noses pecking at guide¬ 
books. If they only knew! She, too, had once loved 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


29 

it; loved it still, on certain days. If it could all be 
simple—songs, doves, sunsets and bells, beggars and 
frescoes. 

The hole was stopped up; and a very neat job she 
had made of it. Now for the poor old black satin, 
which she had worn and worn—afternoons and eve¬ 
nings, evenings and afternoons. It drooped limp and 
skimpy over her plump arm. But black was always 
safe, and the quality of the stuff was good. She had 
bought it with her mother’s last check, a year ago. 
There would be no check this Christmas. And it 
was her own stupid fault, for she had boasted once 
too often in her letters of Hal’s prospering affairs. 
This week’s mail had brought her, as a result, an 
illustrated book on Italian art and a letter from her 
mother announcing that the money she so desper¬ 
ately needed for a new gown was being sent in her 
name to starving Armenian children. 

Hal had roared with laughter, and she had ended 
in seeing the joke on herself. Meanwhile she had 
nothing fit to wear. 

Well, if the Crawford deal succeeded Hal would 
be generous. That he never failed to be when he 
was in funds. If it succeeded! Hal was always so 
sure things would come out as he had planned. She 
wished he had taken her more into his confidence. 
But that was like Hal. Monte counted now— 
Monte, his best friend; Monte, whom he trusted. 

Through the dim grey afternoon the bells swung, 
an unending muffled chain. She must hurry. Dress- 


30 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


ing was like piecing a picture puzzle together out of 
odds and ends. Her black suede gloves would have 
to be inked again, her coat needed a stitch, her black 
velvet toque brushing. 

2 

The Via Tornabuoni. Mrs. Brassington-Welsh 
on the Tornabuoni, coming and going, going and 
coming, every afternoon. Each city had for her 
some such beaten track. In Paris it had been the Rue 
Daunou—Ciro’s. One could lose oneself even on 
beaten tracks in the larger cities. But the Via 
Tornabuoni was a short street with a long tongue 
speaking every language. Sooner or later you ran 
across there everyone you wished to avoid. The 
early evening was like damp grey tulle, wilting and 
clinging. 

Doney’s white-and-gold front. You could look 
through the large lace-curtained windows at the 
little worlds gathered about the bar, the cake coun¬ 
ter, the round tables. It was crowded this Saturday 
afternoon. She hovered a moment, a plump, green¬ 
ish-blond little woman, peering in. There they were 
in a corner of the largest room. Not talking! That 
was a bad sign. Hal loomed heavily behind his 
watery whiskey. The Crawford man’s pink, wary 
face, bending over his tea, wore a dreamy blankness. 
Monte’s back was to her; the curl had gone out of 
it. Well, she would change all that. She smiled, 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


3 i 

practising an entrance, bright and self-assured. Her 
wide red mouth lifted her face into light when she 
smiled like this; her thin nostrils widened; the lines 
around her eyes, like little gold clutches around 
jewels, loosened. 

“Well, I never! Anita—Anita Moffett! To 
think of running across you here! My dear, you 
must forgive me. I’ve forgotten your husband’s 
name.” 

A small, brown eager woman holding on to her 
hand, two tall girls smiling. Why, it was Mrs. 
Edward Lucas, from Stamford, and Edith, grown 
up; and Katharine. 

Have you ever lived on foreign dishes for years 
and years, pretending you liked them, and then sud¬ 
denly come upon a home dish that made you see a 
wooden house with a porch, flower beds, a maple 
tree, forgotten faces, young fluttering gowns, a 
plump figure in a rocking chair? How swiftly the 
flying words', the questions, the answers knitted the 
past to this moment on the Via Tornabuoni! Anita 
Moffett—Mrs. Brassington-Welsh. All that she 
had been, all that she had hoped to be she became 
now before this little audience. 

“You must have tea with us,” Mrs. Lucas urged. 
“Your mother told us to look you up, but she 
couldn’t give us any permanent address. She said 
your husband’s business kept you travelling all over 
the world.” 

Hal’s business! She had forgotten it, forgotten 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


32 

Crawford. She remembered now, but it was too 
late. Hal would have to play up to her friends. He 
would have to be decent to them. 

“I think my husband is in the farther room. He’ll 
be so glad,” she murmured. 

Edith smiled at her. Edith was a handsome girl 
—long, clean-limbed, chestnut and pink, like her 
mother. 

“It must be exciting, travelling a lot,” she was 
saying. 

“Oh, yes, very exciting.” 

Mrs. Brassington-Welsh at Doney’s with three 
friends of the real sort, people from home. She 
held her head tilted a little forward, nodding to 
Cervelli, puny, prying bounder that he was; to old 
bald Mr. Breitstein with his bulging eyes; to Roddy 
Maxwell, the painter. Hal’s stare questioned from 
across the room, “What in the name-” 

The three men had risen and were waiting. She 
introduced them in her prettiest manner. “I think 
you met Mrs. Lucas, Hal, in New York—long ago, 
in fact, the day we were married. And may I pre¬ 
sent Count Montefichi and Mr. Crawford?” 

As they all settled sociably around the table she 
mutely appealed to Hal, and read his answering 
look with an odd distaste. She knew him so well! 
She knew the signs. Yes, he would play up. He 
seemed to swell, to fill the room with the booming 
cheer of his voice, the rounding of his chest. His 
colour deepened, brick red against the sweeping dark 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


33 

moustache, the grizzled hair. Well, well, here was 
luck! Nita’s old friends. Of course he remembered. 
Tea? Cakes? Anything else? How did Mrs. 
Lucas think Nita looked? Best little woman in the 
world; he didn’t half deserve her. 

Mrs. Lucas was nodding and smiling in her direc¬ 
tion, as if to say, “Fine man, your husband, my 
dear.” 

She caught sight of herself in a mirror. She was 
flushed, excited, bright of eye and lip—too bright. 
Monte was talking in his caressing Italian manner 
to Katharine. He had expanded again like a plant 
under the sun, slender, glossy and ripe. Katharine 
was thinner than her mother. She looked like a 
Madonna vaguely missing the child in her arms. 
She kept glancing at Monte from time to time, half 
frightened, half fascinated. After all, the Monte- 
fichi were a very old family. They had stood, so 
far, behind Monte. On his mother’s account he 
was still received by a few of the more indulgent 
Italian hostesses. 

“If it were England, now, you’d be staying with 
us at Brassington Hall. Great old place. The 
Brassingtons, you know.” 

Her lips tightened on her smile to hold it gay and 
unconcerned. She wished Hal wouldn’t. Brassing¬ 
ton Hall—the Brassingtons! 

Crawford’s round blue eye was fastened on Hal. 
She didn’t trust Crawford. He was telling Edith 
now of the villa he hoped to buy at Settignano; of 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


34 

his plans for furnishing it. Hal heard him and 
further brightened. She met Edith’s look, direct, 
friendly. It was a look of daylight through an open 
window falling on shabby spots, on mended places. 
Had her violets shifted? Did the cigarette burn 
show? She smiled on while her hand crept up to 
feel, to adjust. She wouldn’t smoke after her tea. 
It was better not to have taken a cocktail. 

Monte had excused himself to Katharine and was 
bowing over the hand of a wicked-looking old woman 
hung with jewels and attended by two waspish 
young men. Cervelli had joined her. He whispered 
in her ear. 

“That’s the Princess Lubitzki the count is talking 
to,” she volunteered to Katharine, who, shy and 
eager, responded, “You know lots of interesting 
people here, don’t you?” 

“Oh, yes,” she answered carelessly. 

Why did Crawford lean across the table just 
then? 

“You know the princess?” 

His manner implied that he, at least, had heard 
of the lady’s reputation. She tried to signal Hal. 
Of course they didn’t know her. They had met her 
once at one of Roddy Maxwell’s mixed teas. 

But Hal had to blunder out, “Well, rather. Don’t 
forget to speak to her, Nita.” And to Mrs. Lucas: 
“She was telling me the other day an amusing little 
thing the Queen of Rumania said to her when-” 

She tried to kick him under the table, and struck 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


35 

Crawford’s foot instead, who murmured calmly, 
“I beg your pardon.” 

“How long are you going to be here?” she cut in 
on Hal’s rambling absurdities. 

“A week or ten days. You must let us see some¬ 
thing of you, dear child.” 

“See something of us! We count on showing you 
around,” Hal cried jovially. He knew a bit about 
art. Ask his friend, Crawford, there. They must 
let him be their guide. Too bad they couldn’t come 
to the house, but he and his wife were in very tempo¬ 
rary lodgings. Birds of passage, you know. How¬ 
ever, trust him to make the programme. What 
about to-morrow morning? A visit to the Uffizi, 
perhaps? Lunch at a little place he knew where the 
food was ripping. Crawford would come along, 
of course ? 

“Oh, yes, do come!” urged Edith. Not a fool, 
that girl. 

It was decent of Hal to want to give her friends 
a good time. He was paying for the tea and cakes 
now. Trust Monte not to return to the table until 
that was done. A fifty-lire bill; five-lire tip. 

“I’m going to write your mother to-night,” said 
little Mrs. Lucas, linking arms as they moved out. 
“I think the Major is just splendid. And do tell me 
about that nice Mr. Crawford. I knew some Craw¬ 
fords once in West Haven.” 

It was good to hear that homely chatter, to listen 
to those voices—Edith’s clear and firm, Katharine’s 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


36 

shy notes faintly slurred. Hal strolled jauntily on 
one side of Mrs. Lucas, she on the other. Monte 
followed with Katharine. Crawford and Edith 
brought up the rear. Florence did its best for them, 
presenting through the haze of a thousand foreign 
allurements romantic silhouettes, hooded and caped, 
a tenor in a love song, the brooding stone of old 
palazzi huge in the mist, pale drowned lights and 
bridges. Then the sleek hotel on the Lung’ Arno 
Acciaioli and shaking hands and promises of meet¬ 
ing the next day. Mrs. Lucas kissed her. 

She tucked her hand in Hal’s arm, turning to wave 
good-night to Crawford and Monte. She felt gay 
and proud of her friends, and wanted to talk about 
them and about Stamford. Little anecdotes came 
to her mind, links of play and work between the 
Lucas family and her own. If her father had only 
taken Mr. Lucas’ advice he wouldn’t have failed so 
miserably. Her mother would be rich now, as rich 
as Mrs. Lucas, whose husband had left her a fortune. 

Hal led her on, listening, questioning. But she 
grew sad thinking of her father and his wasted 
chances, of her mother back there all alone while 
Mrs. Lucas could afford to travel, to stay at the best 
hotels, to bring up her girls in such ease and luxury. 

Her hand slipped from Hal’s arm. She walked 
silent and apart, her joy gone. The pleasant picture 
of the afternoon broke into fretting particles— 
Cervelli’s crooked smile at her entrance, Monte 
smiling at Katharine, Crawford’s round blue eye, 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


37 


Brassington Hall, her flushed face and red lips 
smiling, that fifty-lire bill Hal had handed over with 
such a lordly gesture. And behind these jostling 
fragments she saw the faces of the three men as they 
had been sitting there at table when she peered 
through Doney’s window. 

She glanced toward Hal. He walked heavily 
among the shadows. He was frowning and tugging 
at his long moustache. 

“What happened to you and Monte this after¬ 
noon?” she suddenly demanded. 

She knew that lowering look, that sideways move¬ 
ment of his head and twitch of his shoulders. He 
would have avoided answering her if he could. 

“Oh, nothing. We went to Monte’s and showed 
Crawford the stuff.” 

“You went to Monte’s? Where? What d’you 
mean?” 

“His people’s house, of course, where he lives. 
They’re not in town, though. It’s all right, Nita. 
Now don’t bother me, that’s a good girl.” 

“You went to the Palazzo Montifichi?” Her 
voice was sharp, afraid. “Oh, Hal, what are you 
two doing there?” 

He took her arm again, squeezing her elbow. 
“Don’t you worry, old girl,” he said in his loud, con¬ 
fident manner. “Monte’s got a right under the 
paternal roof, hasn’t he? And if Crawford wants 
to buy some stuff out of Monte’s own apartment 
there it’s his business, isn’t it?” 


38 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


She stopped short, dragging him to a standstill. 

“Oh, Hal, you’re not selling any of the family 
things while they’re away?” 

“Good Lord, no, Nita! Come along, come 
along.” He tugged her forward. 

“If you want to know,” he went on impatiently, 
“it’s stuff Monte has.” 

“Stuff you got for Monte, you mean,” she insisted. 

She saw it all now—the palazzo being used to bait 
a fraud. Monte’s rooms furnished with clever imi¬ 
tations, emblazoned, perhaps, with the Montifichi 
arms. Monte could do that to his father and mother 
—knowing that if he were caught they would have 
to save him, have to cover the scandal. But if Hal 
were caught! 

“Don’t have anything to do with it. Oh, Hal, 
I’ve never interfered before; but this—it’s beastly!” 

She clung to him, her short legs trying to keep up 
with his stride. Her knees sagged. She was cold 
and wet and miserable. 

They reached the pension, with its smells of fry¬ 
ing oil, of damp walls, soggy linen; reached their 
room, where everything was flung about as she had 
left it—bits of thread sticking like hairs to the 
arms of the chair into which she sank, ravellings of 
stuff, needles, spools, a crusted bottle of ink, the 
rank ash receivers. 

Hal looked sheepish, uneasy. He poured himself 
a drink. Then clumsily he bent over her, trying to 
soothe her. 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


39 

“It’s all right, Nita. Leave it to me. I swear 
to you-” 

“If ever Mrs. Lucas knew!” she wailed. 

He brought her a drink. She gulped it down. 

“Now listen to me, old girl-” 

She listened. The drink had done her good. He 
marched from the table to the window and back 
again, his voice rumbling on. Frankly, the after¬ 
noon hadn’t gone any too smoothly. Well, Craw¬ 
ford had looked the stuff over and liked several 
pieces enough to talk prices. No doubt of it, he 
would come around in time. But the devil of it was 
that he had asked about some other things he had 
seen in the hall and the big drawing-room they had 
to cross to get to Monte’s place. Monte was in a 
funk. Ticklish business. They couldn’t explain why 
only the contents of Monte’s apartment were for 
sale. Point was now not to seem too eager; to hold 
off for a bit. He’d been thinking that that was 
where her friends could help. 

“You’re not going to drag them in?” she fiercely 
interrupted. 

Drag them in. Of course not. They’d simply 
play around together for a few days, Crawford one 
of the party. No further mention of buying or 
selling. See? Nice, cosy atmosphere. Create con¬ 
fidence and all that sort of thing and you hold your 
man. It might even be a good idea if she could get 
the old lady to talk him up to Crawford. 

“Promise you won’t do anything more while 




40 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


they’re here and I won’t interfere,” she said slowly. 
“But if you try any funny business on Mrs. Lucas— 
if ever she should hear—I’d never forgive you, 
never! Understand?” 

Couldn’t she trust him? Of course he’d promise. 
Jolly people, her friends. By Jove, it did him good 
to meet such women. He’d do his best to make 
their stay agreeable. Pleasure to him. Word of 
honour, she needn’t worry. 

She was no longer worrying about anything. 
Lassitude slipped like a fluid from head to foot. 
She let it flow through her with a sense of relief. 
Who and what was she to judge Hal! She had his 
promise not to shame her before them. 

3 

Every night while she slept she seemed to grow 
stale as the room. She was at her worst in the morn¬ 
ing. She never could clearly remember the day 
before except in its relation to the familiar dingy 
uncertainty and oppressive fears which overhung her 
waking. She thought first of Crawford this morn¬ 
ing. Then she thought of the Lucas family with a 
tingle of excitement. They stood between her and 
Crawford. She wanted the day to be beautiful for 
them. But the day was not beautiful. She shivered 
as she climbed out of the bed and drew on an old 
sweater. Over that she slipped a faded pink silk 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


41 

wrapper. Then she trailed to the door at the 
maid’s knock. 

Bitter coffee in thick white cups notched on the 
edges. Hal sprawling opposite her, his long legs 
reaching under the table, his skin mottled, stiff with 
black bristles, his eyes bloodshot. Not very alluring 
in the morning, either of them. But poor old Hal 
was at least never grumpy. He drank down the 
vile black stuff they called coffee and took to his 
blackened pipe without complaint. She had never 
caught him looking at her critically, even though she 
knew how rough were her unrouged lips, how wilted 
her complexion. 

There was one thing she had forgotten when they 
made all these plans for sight-seeing. She couldn’t 
go out in the daylight; not in that black satin dress. 
She fetched it to show to Hal. He rubbed his cheek 
thoughtfully. Even he realised how impossible it 
was. 

“Haven’t you anything else, Nita?” 

She was grateful to him for not saying “Why 
won’t that do?” She had her old travelling dress, 
of course, the one which still held the dust of their 
wanderings during the war. She had hung it in a 
dark corner, hoping never to wear it again. It was 
like bringing out a buried disgrace. She brought it 
out. Hal didn’t feel about it the way she did. He 
looked pleased, relieved. 

“What’s the matter with that?” 

There was nothing really the matter. It never 


42 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


had been becoming. That brownish colour didn’t 
suit her. The skirt was too long, but she had 
noticed that Mrs. Lucas didn’t follow the fashion 
in the length of her skirts. The neck needed fresh¬ 
ening. Three buttons were missing in the two front 
rows of trimming. She must have them in her sew¬ 
ing box. She could wear it, she finally decided, if 
she worked on it that morning and had it pressed 
that afternoon. Hal would have to meet her friends 
alone. He took this news cheerfully. 

There was another thing. She couldn’t wear her 
long black suede gloves with these long sleeves. If 
she could have managed new gloves, and perhaps a 
veil—one could do wonders with veils—her black 
velvet toque would look quite smart. 

Hal was shaved and dressed. With his back to 
her he fumbled in his wallet. When he turned he 
held a fifty-lire note. 

“Will this do?” 

Do? Of course it would do. But where had he 
got this money, when only last week he had told her 
they were living on credit? He shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders and smiled. The bill, crumpled and torn, felt 
like silk in her hand. It was good to finger money 
again. She knew just where she would get the 
gloves and the veil. 

“Thank you, old dear,” she said with a rush of 
tenderness. 

He chuckled, standing there, very debonair. His 
brown suit, old as it was, fitted him with authority. 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 43 

His gloves matched his spats. His fedora was just 
slightly cocked over a bushy black brow. She drew 
her faded pink silk dressing gown closer around her 
sweater and lifted her head to be kissed. 

Sewing and mending all morning. A delicious 
hour in the shops. She thought of Hal and her 
friends out together. She thought of Crawford. 

4 

Came days of sudden blue, a rare flowering in 
the season of rains. Spring thrilled lightly through 
the air with the passing brilliance of a coloured bird. 
Flowers everywhere among the aromatic Christmas 
trees for sale on the piazzi —violets, narcissi, roses. 
She had never walked so much in all her life, never 
visited so many churches, never climbed so many 
steps or gazed at so many saints. 

The Lucas family were doing Florence, doing it 
more on foot than in carriages, because you saw 
more when you walked. Monte was doing it, Craw¬ 
ford was doing it. Hal organised these daily expe¬ 
ditions; carried them through, as it were, on the 
crest of his booming voice, which directed, explained, 
instructed at every turn. Each night now he would 
study her mother’s Christmas present, the illustrated 
book on Italian art. Each night her feet ached and 
.her neck ached from the exercise of looking up at 
things. She was too tired to wonder any longer 
why he made these prodigious efforts or where the 


42 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


had been becoming. That brownish colour didn’t 
suit her. The skirt was too long, but she had 
noticed that Mrs. Lucas didn’t follow the fashion 
in the length of her skirts. The neck needed fresh¬ 
ening. Three buttons were missing in the two front 
rows of trimming. She must have them in her sew¬ 
ing box. She could wear it, she finally decided, if 
she worked on it that morning and had it pressed 
that afternoon. Hal would have to meet her friends 
alone. He took this news cheerfully. 

There was another thing. She couldn’t wear her 
long black suede gloves with these long sleeves. If 
she could have managed new gloves, and perhaps a 
veil—one could do wonders with veils—her black 
velvet toque would look quite smart. 

Hal was shaved and dressed. With his back to 
her he fumbled in his wallet. When he turned he 
held a fifty-lire note. 

“Will this do?” 

Do? Of course it would do. But where had he 
got this money, when only last week he had told her 
they were living on credit ? He shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders and smiled. The bill, crumpled and torn, felt 
like silk in her hand. It was good to finger money 
again. She knew just where she would get the 
gloves and the veil. 

“Thank you, old dear,” she said with a rush of 
tenderness. 

He chuckled, standing there, very debonair. His 
brown suit, old as it was, fitted him with authority. 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 43 

His gloves matched his spats. His fedora was just 
slightly cocked over a bushy black brow. She drew 
her faded pink silk dressing gown closer around her 
sweater and lifted her head to be kissed. 

Sewing and mending all morning. A delicious 
hour in the shops. She thought of Hal and her 
friends out together. She thought of Crawford. 

4 

Came days of sudden blue, a rare flowering in 
the season of rains. Spring thrilled lightly through 
the air with the passing brilliance of a coloured bird. 
Flowers everywhere among the aromatic Christmas 
trees for sale on the piazzi —violets, narcissi, roses. 
She had never walked so much in all her life, never 
visited so many churches, never climbed so many 
steps or gazed at so many saints. 

The Lucas family were doing Florence, doing it 
more on foot than in carriages, because you saw 
more when you walked. Monte was doing it, Craw¬ 
ford was doing it. Hal organised these daily expe¬ 
ditions; carried them through, as it were, on the 
crest of his booming voice, which directed, explained, 
instructed at every turn. Each night now he would 
study her mother’s Christmas present, the illustrated 
book on Italian art. Each night her feet ached and 
.her neck ached from the exercise of looking up at 
things. She was too tired to wonder any longer 
why he made these prodigious efforts or where the 


44 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


money came from to make them. But every morn¬ 
ing in her refurbished brown suit, her new veil, her 
new gloves she met her friends at their hotel. When 
she was with Mrs. Lucas she felt safe, talking to 
her about her mother, listening to praise of Hal. 
“The Major is wonderful. What would we do 
without him?” Talking to Edith when Crawford 
wasn’t attached to her elbow; talking to Katharine, 
whose young eyes held an exalted expression as she 
moved tirelessly among old splendours. 

Shopping. What they bought! Stamped leather 
boxes and bags, photographs, frames, trinkets, pink 
coral for Edith, white coral for Katharine, pendant 
earrings, a set of tortoise-shell combs. If only she 
had the money they were spending—even half of it! 
She would stand by holding to her smile while they 
spent and spent. 

“Oh, mother, do look at this!” “Edith, isn’t this 
just the thing for Mrs. Morrison?” Presents for 
everyone at home. Presents for her too. A set of 
combs, a little coral necklace. She was ashamed 
of the tears that gathered when Mrs. Lucas gave 
her the necklace. She had always wanted one. 

Hal was very active on these shopping expeditions. 
She knew why. She knew why he forgot his stick 
or his cigarette case or a package in nearly every one 
of the shops and had to go back. After all, what 
did the few lire he could pick up this way in com¬ 
missions mean to them ? 

But she was still afraid of Crawford. She was 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


45 

the more afraid of him as he appeared the more 
harmless, placid, cherubic, interested in Hal’s lec¬ 
tures on art, attentive to everything Hal said, agree¬ 
able to all Hal’s suggestions. She was sure Hal 
blundered now and then. Monte never blundered. 
Whatever else he lacked, he knew his Italy and 
recited it suavely with lyrical bursts—genuine, these 
—when his dark face and dark eyes glowed with 
love. 

They had already prolonged their stay from one 
to two weeks. There were only a few days left 
Then they would go brightly and safely as they had 
come, taking with them their souvenirs, their happy 
memories of travel. They would go home, never 
knowing. She would be left here in Florence. And 
they envied her. She shuddered away from the 
prettiness which so deceptively overlay the grim old 
stones, the beauty of cruel tombs. Everywhere in 
this town people were feeding like leeches fastened 
on the past, or fastened, as she and Hal, to the 
Crawfords who came and went. The air was full 
of the soft sucking of leeches—little tradesmen, 
beggars, hotel keepers ; romantic old maids, artists, 
tourists, expatriates. She was weary of it all. She 
longed for solid homeliness, for a broad-shouldered, 
bustling American town, virtuous, ignorant of subtle¬ 
ties, crude in the faults of youth. She supposed she 
was homesick. 

They were going early Monday morning. And on 
Sunday night, at his own request, Crawford was 


48 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


She felt soggy with unshed tears as she trudged 
along the Arno. To-morrow they would be gone, 
speeding back to their home, their friends. And 
she would be here just the same. Mrs. Brassing- 
ton-Welsh on the Tornabuoni. Mrs. Brassington- 
Welsh at Doney’s. Oh, the dreariness of it! 

She found Mrs. Lucas among valises and trunks 
in the large bright room facing the Arno, Mrs. 
Lucas in blue serge, little and plump, her young- 
looking parted hair drawn smooth. She came slowly 
forward. 

“I sent Edith and Katharine out with Mr. Craw¬ 
ford,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you alone, 
Anita.” 

Something was wrong. She let Mrs. Lucas take 
her hand and lead her to the red sofa at the foot 
of the bed. There was a big bunch of violets on 
the bureau. She should have brought flowers. From 
the window she saw the pastel-coloured roofs and 
loggias of the Borgo San Jacopo, the blue of sky 
ribbed with gauzy clouds. Mrs. Lucas held to her 
hand. Bad news. Fear clamped over her heart. 
She tried to smile. 

“Anita, dear child, I’m going to hurt you,” Mrs. 
Lucas began. She didn’t want to listen. She stared 
at the clouds and wished she were up there melted 
in them, just floating lazily. “You know that I’m 
your mother’s oldest friend. I held you in my arms 
the day you were born. I—for your mother’s sake. 
If she knew-” 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


49 


She must face those brown eyes fixed on her so 
anxiously, so sadly. 

‘‘Knew what?” Her voice was harsh. 

Mrs. Lucas hesitated, her round face tremulous. 
“Last night I heard—oh, my poor dear child, I 
hardly dare tell you,” she quavered. “Perhaps you 
don’t know. Your husband-” 

“My husband—well?” 

What had she heard? What was coming? 

It came with a rush. 

“He’s dishonest, Anita. He’s not a good man. 
You do know! I can see it by your face. It’s too 
terrible. I can’t think how you—why didn’t you 
come to me, child? When I think of my own 
girls-” 

She was greatly agitated; tears in her eyes. 

“It’s a lie! Hal isn’t bad. Who’s been telling 
you things ?” She sprang up, the hot blood pounding 
in her face. 

Mrs. Lucas sat there stretching her arms out, 
appealing. 

“Won’t you think of me a little as a mother? 
Won’t you trust me?” 

What business was it of hers ? After all Hal had 
done for them! They thought him fine enough at 
first. Who had meddled? They would go back 
now and talk. Her mother would hear! 

“Hal’s had hard times,” she said passionately. 
“All business men go through hard times. But 
he never-” 





50 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“Mr. Crawford knows.” It was dropped softly. 

“Crawford? What did you tell him?” 

She must be calmer than this. It was serious 
now—if Crawford knew. 

Mrs. Lucas rose, facing her. 

“I told him nothing. Will you answer me one 
question, Anita? Why did you send your husband 
to me for money? Why didn’t you come yourself 
-—yesterday?” 

She didn’t understand. Send Hal for money? 

“I gave him five thousand lire for you yesterday 
afternoon. There were certain bills you had to 
meet, he said. His check hadn’t arrived from 
England. He begged me not to refer to this— 
this loan—when I saw you to-day, because, he said, 
it had made you quite ill. He explained how sensi¬ 
tive and proud you were. But I thought it strange.” 

Hal had done that behind her back? Never told 
her! Not a word! Suddenly she crumpled on the 
sofa. 

“You didn’t know? My dear, you didn’t know, 
then?” 

She was humbled, broken. Sobs racked her from 
head to foot. There wasn’t a shred left. Hal 
hadn’t left her a shred. The treachery of it, the 
ugliness. She could never trust him again. She 
had lied for him, abased herself, risked even prison. 
She would have slaved for him. And he could go 
behind her back- 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 51 

Mrs. Lucas spoke softly, bending over her, strok¬ 
ing her hand. 

“I never thought I should advise a woman to 
leave her husband. But I didn’t know there were 
—such things. And you, Janey’s child, exposed to 
them. I feel as if Providence had sent me here. 
I’ve prayed through the night for strength and 
wisdom. Anita, you must come home with us. You 
must come home to your dear mother before it’s 
too late.” The kind voice wavered, went on again 
urgently. “You’re in danger, child—terrible danger 
—here. You don’t know how I fear for you.” 

Sob—sob and sob in blackness. Drenched and 
bleary. Hal hadn’t spared her. She never could 
trust him again. 

“Must I show you the danger? Must I tell you 
more ?” 

Was there any more to tell? 

“Six months ago your husband sold in Paris some 
tapestries to a young man representing a big New 
York house—Stafford’s. These tapestries when 
they arrived in New York were discovered to be 
very clever imitations. The young man was severely 
blamed and dismissed. I can’t believe you knew 
all these things, Anita.” 

That was Rawston—poor Rawston, whom they 
had dazzled and flattered. How vile it was! And 
what had they got out of it when everything was 
paid up? Well, she’d tell the truth, at least. 


52 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“Yes, I know.” She buried her head deeper in 
the cushions. 

No reproach. A pause, and then: “I under¬ 
stand, dear. There was no one to help you. How 
you must have suffered! But you must listen to me 
now. You must! Your husband disappeared from 
Paris. Mr. Crawford happened by the merest 
chance to hear of him here. Mr. Crawford,” Mrs. 
Lucas slowly added, “is one of the partners of 
Stafford’s. Now do you see?” 

Crawford! So that was it! She had been right 
to fear him. A trap—and Hal like a fool walking 
into it. What could they do now? She must warn 
him at once. She tried to struggle to her feet, 
but she was heavy with shame and fear. She 
couldn’t raise her head. 

“It was Mr. Crawford who told us about this 
last night. It had been worrying him because of 
my attachment to you and your mother. He and 
Edith—they’re engaged. Edith made him tell us 
everything. He told us he was only waiting for 
further proofs to catch your husband and that 
Count we’ve been seeing, in the very act of selling 
worthless things for genuine antiques. It was a 
great shock to Katharine. She had thought the 
Count such a wonderful man. We begged and 
begged him—all of us—not to go on with it. Kath¬ 
arine was in tears. It seems the Count has talked 
to her so much about his family. But if it hadn’t 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


53 


been for Edith he would never have given in. Edith 
made him see that he should have had your hus¬ 
band—arrested—in the first place if he had felt 
that his duty, not have led him into something else 
that was dishonourable.” 

Honesty? Honour? Yes, that was a language 
these people understood. Could she ever get up, 
ever face the light? Edith had saved them. Edith I 

Mrs. Lucas was saying, “Mr. Crawford is leav¬ 
ing with us to-morrow. You owe him a great deal, 
Anita. But because your husband got off this time 
it doesn’t mean he will the next. From what Mr. 
Crawford says I’m afraid this won’t be a lesson 
to him. What will become of you? Oh, child, you 
must come home, where you’ll be safe among people 
who care for you.” 

Home? People who cared for her? They of¬ 
fered her this chance. She dragged herself from 
the sofa. Her hair clung to cheeks caked with 
rouge and powder. Her eyes were swollen. A 
sight; she was a sight. Mrs. Lucas mustn’t see her 
face. 

She was held tight and close against a soft breast. 
She had forgotten how sweet a woman’s arms could 
be. She could let herself be weak, and lean for a 
moment. How good they were to her—how good. 
Oh, to begin life again, clean and unafraid among 
people who cared. 

“I’ll come,” she whispered. 


54 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“My dear, my dear, you’ve taken a load from 
my heart. I just couldn’t bear it. The girls will 
be so happy. You’ll spend the night with us. I’ll 
send my maid to pack your things. You can write 
him from here. You see how strongly I feel to 
advise you this way.” 

Gently the arms were withdrawn. 

She stood again alone, turning her head aside. 

“No, I must go back. I must tell him,” she said 
wearily. “He’ll let me go.” 

Mrs. Lucas looked distressed. “I’m sure I don’t 
know—I’ve never before—wouldn’t it be better to 
spare him and yourself?” 

“Spare him!” She tried to smile. “After what 
he’s done?” She must get those five thousand lire. 
She must bring them back. She brushed aside the 
damp wisps of hair, rubbed her cheeks. Rouge 
stains on her handkerchief. She dared not look in 
the mirror. A dab of powder. It would have to 
do. 

“You promise to be here by dinner time? Anita, 
I can trust you? I’ll send a man for your trunk 
in an hour.” 

Oh, the anxious note in the kind woman’s voice! 

“You’re so good to me,” she said. “I want to go 
home with you.” 

Yes, she wanted to go home. Everything was 
finished between her and Hal. It was as if she 
had died there on that red sofa. 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


55 


5 

Perhaps she would meet Hal in the street, swag¬ 
gering along with Mrs. Lucas’ money in his pocket. 
That very morning he had talked of plans; of Craw¬ 
ford and the South American. Not a word of the 
five thousand lire. She might never have known. 
He never would have paid it back, never. He 
knew that these people were from her own home. 
He knew why she had refused to take advantage 
of them. What a life she had lived—what a life! 
Oh, well, to-morrow she would be in a train—they 
would travel first class, of course—flying from it 
all. Sitting, perhaps, opposite Crawford. Could 
she bear those round blue eyes? 

Never to see Florence again. Two blocks more; 
one block. Heavy, heavy feet. At last the ocher 
front of the pension. For the last time. Every¬ 
thing looked so strange. 

From the end of the cheerless hall on their floor 
she heard him bellowing a cockney song. The 
rumbling bass voice turned her cold. He could sing 
then! He would go on singing and drinking after 
she was gone. Some day he’d be caught. 

She opened the door. His shaving things were 
scattered over the washstand. Everything was in 
disorder. 

‘‘Hurry up, old girl,” he chirruped. “We’re to 
meet Monte at Doney’s. You’re coming with us 
to settle old Crawford.” 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


56 

“He’s settled,” she said deliberately, and leaned 
for a moment against the discoloured wall. She was 
going away, and he didn’t know it yet. She had 
so many things to say to him first. 

He swung around. 

“What’s the matter? Cheero!” 

“Crawford won’t be at your dinner.” 

Better to begin that way, slow and cold. 

“What’s that? What d’ye mean?” He stood 
in his shirt sleeves, suspenders hanging, red face 
gaping. 

“He’s leaving Florence to-morrow. I’m leaving, 
too.” 

Oh, that idiotic stare I She shook her shoulders, 
walked swiftly over to the bed, pulled out her old 
valise. Dust rose like a cloud of gnats. Her fingers 
were grimed. A strap broken. Never mind. 

“You and Crawford!” 

He was on her, his big hands pinching her shoul¬ 
ders, slewing her around. Purple. The man was 
purple. She made no attempt to move. 

“No, I’m going home with Mrs. Lucas.” She 
dripped it on him like acid. 

His mouth opened slowly under the drooping 
moustache. Staring, he let go of her and collapsed 
in a chair, his knees apart, his hands loose between 
them. 

“I don’t get you,” he said at last. 

She started pulling drawers open, flinging things 
into the suitcase. She couldn’t speak. Rags—rags 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


57 

—shredded bits of silk, frayed linen, crumpled rib¬ 
bons. What would they think—the maid and all? 

It was his fault. He had driven her to it. She 
whirled on him. 

“I know about the money! How could you, Hal? 
How dared you go to Mrs. Lucas, in my name, after 
all I said to you?” 

“Nita, I’ll explain. I swear I meant-” 

“You’ve sworn enough. And I’ve got something 
else to tell you. D’you know who Crawford is? 
He’s a partner of Stafford’s. That’s who he is! 
Remember those tapestries you sold to Rawston? 
Well, Crawford came here to get you. Under¬ 
stand? Get you!” 

“Good Lord!” 

“And he would have got you, too, if it hadn’t 
been for Mrs. Lucas and Edith. He’s engaged to 
Edith. You can thank them. Mrs. Lucas told me 
all about it. She’s a real friend, that woman, the 
only friend I’ve ever had.” 

She was sobbing with anger. Bitter, bitter the 
tears, bitter the pain, the contempt in her heart. 
Go on, tell him—tell him how you’ve hated it all. 
Tell him of the nights you’ve lain in sickness and 
fear; of the days and days you’ve spent alone, wait¬ 
ing for something to happen. Tell him how you 
loathe that whiskey bottle standing over there, how 
you loathe his bloodshot eyes and his loud, boast¬ 
ing voice. Tell him about the Rawston boy losing 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


58 

his place. Remind him of the others he has tricked 
and made you trick. 

Her voice went on, terrible, pitiless, tearing and 
baring their poor, ugly life. 

He listened dully, his fingers fretting at one an¬ 
other. Why didn’t he say something? Why did he 
sit there like that? 

“Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?” 

He rose then with a weighty movement of shoul¬ 
ders. She knew every one of his gestures. He 
was going to be noble. 

“You’re right, old girl,” he said in a queer, husky 
voice. “I’m a rotter. Crawford’s been damn de¬ 
cent, considering. And those friends of yours, too. 
Want you to go home with them, do they? Better 
go while the going’s good.” 

“Hal, why did you take that money?” 

“I swear I only borrowed it.” 

“Borrowed!” she lashed at him. 

“Didn’t think you’d take it so hard. Can’t help 
it. Bad blood. Told you in the beginning. Never 
had any luck,” he mumbled. 

“Luck! Couldn’t you work?” 

He shook his head, passing a hand over his fore¬ 
head. 

“Too late. Might have once. You’re right. 
Home and all that sort of thing. You’ve had a 
devilish hard time with me. No excuse.” 

Slowly he turned to the bureau, took up his col¬ 
lar, buttoning it on his stud with his old metal shoe 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 59 

buttoner. His elbow in the air clumsily revolved; 
his face twisted as if the movement hurt him. 

“What are you doing?” she cried sharply. 

“Got to dine anyway with Monte; explain.” He 
seemed to be having trouble with his words. 
“Monte’s put a lot of money in this. Fifteen thou¬ 
sand, standing to get twice that. Don’t know what 
he’ll do, but he’ll be mad as hell. Got to stand the 
racket. I introduced him to Crawford. My fault.” 

She watched him fumble in the drawer. He 
couldn’t find anything, his hands trembled so. 

“Your handkerchiefs are on the left side,” she 
said mechanically. 

He went over to the table, poured himself a drink, 
turned and came toward her. 

“Nita, you’ve been a good little pal. Can’t pre¬ 
tend I’m not knocked up a bit. But I don’t blame 
you. Understand? Divorce me. Anything you 
want. Just remember one thing, will you? There’s 
never been anyone else. Just you. See?” 

He was close to her. She saw him in reds and 
purples, but shrunken like a punctured balloon. 
Yes, he’d been faithful. She knew that. But now 
—now that he would be alone! Another woman 
with Hal—younger, prettier! She could see the 
woman, see her in the room moving around, sitting 
at the table, mending. Trotting beside Hal on the 
street. She could see her at Doney’s. 

A knock on the door. Her heart jumped. It was 


6o 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


the maid peering in, sly, insolent. There was a 
porter downstairs with a handcart. 

Let him wait. She walked over to the old win¬ 
dow. In the rich deepening of that twilight she saw 
the man lolling beside the little cart; saw the hill 
beyond, wearing San Miniato, rose-coloured; saw 
the Arno, like a dead silver fish in a basket. She 
would never look out from this window again. The 
man would take her one shabby little valise and 
trundle it along the quays. The luggage of an ad¬ 
venturer, a nomad. She was ashamed, ashamed. 

There was a ripping sound. What was that? 

Hal had torn off his collar, tossed it down. He 
sat huddled on a chair, covering his face with his 
hands. She would never see him again. She would 
live in the little house in Stamford with her mother, 
hundreds of Ediths, Katharines fencing her in. They 
would call her Anita, and be sorry for her. They 
would be very kind. But they would wonder and 
talk. Then some day her mother would die. 

Would they dine downstairs in the restaurant 
to-night? Would Crawford be there? No, they 
would send her dinner up to her on a tray, and 
they would come in quietly and kiss her. Where 
would Hal be? She remembered suddenly a girl 
they had seen around Doney’s—a bold-eyed, well- 
dressed girl, a friend of Roddy Maxwell. Hal 
had said once he thought her pretty. Perhaps she 
would be the one. She crossed over by him, not 
touching him. 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 6 t 

The mirror. Yes, that was she—powder streaked* 
the pleated frill at her neck all crushed. They would 
pretend they didn’t mind, but they would notice in 
the days and days of the trip how worn she was. 
Taken out of her tarnished frame, removed from 
Hal—what would she be? 

He said never a word; just sat there, beaten. 

A piece of paper, a pencil, an envelope. Quick,, 
she must write. “I won’t leave Hal. He needs me. 
If you ever tell my mother, you’ll kill her.” The 
words sprawled over the page. She held the letter 
in her hand and marched on him. 

“How much of that five thousand have you 
left?” 

He motioned to the limp coat hanging over a 
chair. She darted roughly at the pocket. His 
wallet with his crest. His crest I Only four thou¬ 
sand in large bills. Perhaps in another pocket. 
Three one hundred bills, a few torn smaller ones, a 
few bits of silver, stamps. 

“Where’s the other seven hundred? You can’t 
have spent it since yesterday?” 

He lifted his head, staring at her with dull eyes. 

“I paid the bill here. And there was yesterday’s 
dinner. I bought a box of cigars. Sorry, Nita.” 

She stuffed the bills in the envelope, rang the bell. 
He watched her. The maid must have been waiting 
outside. She came at once. 

“I say, Nita,” he faltered, “I’m cleaned out, you: 
know. Couldn’t you-?” 



62 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


She handed the envelope to the maid. “For the 
porter. He needn’t wait.” 

She heard Hal stumble forward. She heard him 
stammer her name. 

Nothing left, and she here—she and Hal. 

“No, come back!” She opened the door and 
cried to the maid. 

Quick, the envelope. She had even forgotten to 
seal it. All the better. Just a movement of her 
fingers slipping in and out. Three hundred lire. 
She held them crumpled desperately in her hand. 
Enough for to-night and to-morrow. This time she 
sealed the envelope, giving it to the maid. 

“There, that’s all,” she said. 

As she closed the door and turned around, Hal 
caught her in his arms. He held her tightly, fiercely 
—“You’ll never regret it—never. I swear I’ll make 
it up to you.” 


CHAPTER III 


BIG GAME 

I 

H E had done his best to make it up to her. 
But it had not been easy to face Monte, 
and long afterwards she thought of the 
ugly scene between the two men—Monte’s grace 
and charms stripped from him; Monte’s quick Ital¬ 
ian temper blazing out in threats which, fortunately, 
he dared not carry out. 

It was Hal’s South American friend who got them 
away from Florence. That’s about all he did do, 
for when he discovered that Hal did not have in¬ 
fluential friends in Paris who were to help put 
through a certain neat little deal in coffee, he ex¬ 
pressed himself in explosive terms. It had been a 
very delicate business getting rid of him. And all 
the time there was the torturing fear that Mrs. 
Lucas might write her mother the truth. It took 
weeks to dispel that fear. 

Weeks of lying low in a stuffy little hotel on the 
Riviera—a cheap place littered with second-rate 
English families, but near enough to Monte Carlo to 
permit Hal one of his favourite pastimes—roulette. 
63 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


64 

And actually, amazingly, luck was with him. He 
won enough to replenish their wardrobe, and to get 
them to Biarritz. That wasn’t so bad. 

There was always, however, that sense of un¬ 
reality; of being in one city and then in another; 
of its suddenly being spring and then, as suddenly, 
autumn. She would have liked to have stayed with 
the sun all winter long, warming herself, thinking 
of nothing. It was Hal who had insisted on going 
back to Paris. Florence last winter, Paris this. 
What did it matter, after all, where they were? 

But to have decided on Paris and come all the 
way, and then to have him change his mind! He 
hadn’t said a word this morning. And an hour 
after he left the hotel, these expensive new trunks 
and a valise were delivered from him telling her to 
pack and to be ready when he came back in the 
afternoon. 

Ready for what, she would like to know! He 
had gone off, she remembered now, in a suspiciously 
jaunty mood. She had imagined him conducting 
their latest friend Mr. Billings, of Billings Cracker 
Co., on a sociable tour among the Paris bars. She 
had even considered meeting them at the Chatham 
for a cocktail. Only the thought of Mrs. Billings, 
who was absurdly old-fashioned, deterred her. No 
use in antagonizing Mrs. Billings. 

And then these new trunks had been plumped 
down on her. Well, she might as well pack. Noth¬ 
ing could be worse than this hotel. But how she 


BIG GAME 


65 

hated trunks! They were the symbol of her life. 
These trunks had an insolent look. They were over¬ 
large, black and sleek, marked too conspicuously 
in red with Hal’s crest. People asked indiscreet 
questions about crests. 

The sight of her luncheon tray on the ink-spotted 
tablecloth made her sick. Nothing so loathsome 
as dead eggs congealed in their glue and violet 
stains of vin ordinaire on a coarse mussed napkin. 
Ring for the maid—no bell in the room. What 
could you expect for ten francs a day? The Bill¬ 
ings paid four hundred francs for their suite in the 
Hotel du Rhin. Could the Billings have found out 
anything? The familiar fear crept prickling from 
head to knees. Fool she was to worry. Bad for 
the little lines that webbed her eyes; bad for the 
disciplined curve of her lips. 

She didn’t want to think of it. But as she turned 
from the glossy new trunks, she caught sight of the 
battered old trunk and valise huddled in a corner of 
the room. Their smudged labels looked at her 
knowingly. Florence. There it was—Pension dell’ 
Arno, a smeared pinkish and black label, torn at the 
edge where she had tried to pull it off. 

Better pack. She went to and fro with small 
anxious steps, her blue quilted wrapper pinned up 
with safety pins to prevent it from touching the 
dusty parquet floor. Chilled air oozed through the 
leaky windows. The fireplace was boarded up and 
papered over with the same pink as the walls—r 


66 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


a pink which, especially after she had been on a 
party, reminded her unpleasantly of her complexion. 
Against this surface of wilted brightness, the furni¬ 
ture hunched itself with a false cozy air: a scroll 
topped wardrobe, a brass bed, a nickel white wash- 
stand. You were meant to feel at home here. 
Reckless young Beaux Arts men who feared neither 
colds nor rheumatism nor indigestible food gave to 
the place what she supposed was a “student atmos¬ 
phere.” Mrs. Billings thought it so interesting and 
romantic to live around the corner from the Beaux 
Arts. Cheap in any case. 

Well, she owned a few decent things now. Not 
enough to fill the trunks, though. Had she forgot¬ 
ten anything? She took from the closet her best 
evening gown of black chiffon trimmed with sequins. 
Not so seductive in the sickly grey light of a Paris 
November. Look at that now—sequins hanging on 
by a thread. She had been careless lately; hadn’t 
kept her things up. 

There wasn’t very much to go in the valise. Hal’s 
same old spotted dressing gown, his whiskey bottle 
standing on the washstand, the hair brushes. She 
should have washed the hair brushes, but with the 
amount of hot water one got in the mornings, wash¬ 
ing anything but one’s face and hands seemed an 
extravagance. 

She slipped on her black serge suit with the em¬ 
broidered pockets. The loose box effect of the 
jacket suited her. The great point was to move 


BIG GAME 


67 

and act as if you were thin. Of course she might 
go through a few exercises in the mornings, but 
bending and twisting about must be bad for the 
liver. It made her dizzy when she tried. 

The bells of Saint Germain rang tarnished silver 
notes—one, two, three. She went to the window. 
Everything was dank and grey. Sweating pores of 
the city exuded mist that drained the colour of 
passersby. Not like the soft fragrance of Italy 
where flowers melted in the air, and there was song 
everywhere. Sounds here were harsh melancholy. 
She listened to the squawking of horns, the rumble of 
motor buses pounding down the narrow rue Bona¬ 
parte. Why didn’t Hal come? 

People dribbled past the bluish house fronts—* 
a motor with a bored lady leaning back on uphol¬ 
stered cushions; a delivery wagon; a tall man step¬ 
ping importantly (not Hal); a boy with a basket. 
Two taxis. At last here he was. About time. 

One taxi was empty. Hal sat in the other, mili¬ 
tary of shoulder, very pleased with himself as she 
could tell by the angle of his hat. No bad news 
then. That second taxi must be for the trunks. The 
coolness of Hal taking for granted- 

He looked up and waved. She ran to the door, 
opened it. She heard him heavy on the stairs, briskly 
marching up the hall. 

“I thought you were never coming, Hal. What 
are we-?” 

He bent to kiss her. He smelt of gin, cologne 




68 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


and cigars. He had been with Billings then. He 
had also been to the barber, and he had bought 
himself a pair of pearl grey gloves to match his 
fedora. 

“Everything ready? Good, old girl. Haven’t 
time to explain—it’s a surprise-’’ 

He was going to be mysterious. She knew that 
deep tone of his, a breastwork against attack be¬ 
hind which he strutted red and hearty. She looked 
at him severely as, with a bright show of energy, 
he laid his hat, stick, and gloves on the table next 
to the gruesome luncheon tray, and strode toward 
the trunks. Very much engaged, he was, in ad¬ 
miring his crest. 

“But, Hal, why are we leaving Paris? Have the 
Billings asked us anywhere?’’ She might have 
thought of that before. A motor trip, perhaps, 
through Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo again. White 
casinos, mimosa, the blue of Southern seas. How 
she had missed them! 

No, the Billings hadn’t invited them anywhere. 
In fact, they weren’t leaving Paris. Now was she 
satisfied? He prowled around the trunks, fussing 
with the locks. 

“Not leaving Paris? Hal, you’d better tell me.” 

“Haven’t time. You leave it all to me.” He was 
fumbling now in the lower compartment of the ward¬ 
robe trunk where, wrapped in Daily Mails, were her 
slippers, his pumps, a heavy pair of boots. 

“Hal, what are you doing?” It was just like him 



BIG GAME 


69 

to upset everything. Good gracious, these taxis 
waiting. Where was her hat? Hal flung a smoul¬ 
dering cigarette stub onto the floor. She picked 
it up, pressed it down with her thumb on the edge of 
the egg plate. Another stub wilted in a pool of 
water on the washstand. 

She stood before the mirror. If he wouldn’t tell 
her, why, he wouldn’t. Powder her nose, anyway. 
You couldn’t see a thing in this light. Her lips 
were chapped. She ran a finger over them, flecked 
off dried particles of skin; drew a bold red wing, 
leaning forward, her elbow steadied on the wash- 
stand shelf. How much should they give the bonne? 
Five francs was plenty. 

“Hal, leave five francs for the maid on the tray, 
will you?” 

Her toque needed brushing, and she had packed 
the brushes. Black velvet showed every speck of 
dust. Never mind. Drape her veil over it. You 
could do anything with lace veils. If only she knew 
where they were going! These surprises of 
Hal’s- 

Such a noise. She whirled about. He was ham¬ 
mering the brass trimmings of the trunk with one 
of his heavy boots which he had unpacked. 

“Are you crazy?” She flew to seize his arm. 

“Let go, Nita. I know what I’m doing.” He 
peered down at her, flushed and determined. 
“They’re too damn new. I’m breakin’ ’em in.” 

“Breaking them-!” She stared at him. He 




70 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


stood there, brandishing his shoe in midair, his 
mouth pouting under the bristle of his moustache. 
It was too absurd! She began to laugh. He joined 
in as if relieved at her manner of taking it, but while 
he roared and rumbled over his own performance, 
he banged away like a man with a purpose. He 
had some idea in his head, and he wasn’t going to 
tell her. 

“That’s enough now.” She spoke sharply. If 
he was up to anything queer, she would refuse to 
go through with it. She told him so. 

He protested with a virtuous offended air. 
Everything was all right; pos-i-tively all right. 
Didn’t she trust him? 

“I wish to Heaven I could.” No use losing her 
temper. 

The trunks were ready. He went to the win¬ 
dow, called to the chauffeurs. 

Well, she should be accustomed by now to these 
sudden shifts. Funny about hotel rooms, how they 
cast off privacies and took on others. A change of 
linen and towels, a superficial sweeping and airing, 
and they were ready for the next strangers. A few 
stray hairpins on the table, a slice of green soap 
drowning in a soap bowl, an empty bottle of Hal’s 
hair tonic, dead cigarette stubs, a rusty pen with 
which, only yesterday, she had written her monthly 
cheerful letter to her mother; the discarded old 
trunk and valise—just cast-off stuff—and that was 
all to tell of their passage. 


BIG GAME 


71 


The chauffeurs, reeking of sour wine, creaked in. 
Hal called from the hall—“Coming, Nita?” 

She pulled the veil loosely over her face. “Yes, 
I’m coming.” 

2 

Major and Mrs. Brassington-Welsh on the 
Champs Elysees, looking as if they spent their lives 
riding up the great highways of the world at the 
fashionable hour. It was all very well to start out 
this way at the glamorous hour before twilight 
when Paris lay soft under haze, and the bridges, the 
reddening chestnut trees, the statues and gardens 
were blended in grey and rose. But where would 
they be that night ? She asked Hal once more. He 
wagged his head with a cunning triumphant look. 

The Rond Point. Everyone was going to tea 
somewhere. People in beautiful motors, people on 
foot; smart young women with police dogs, dapper 
old men with red rosettes in their buttonholes. Ease 
and pleasure in the air. She relaxed dreamily. What 
did it matter where they went as they rolled on and 
on, swerving, dodging in and out. Polished shop 
windows, polished motors for sale. She thought 
of huge shaggy chrysanthemums, of a wood fire, of 
silver teapots. 

Hal sprawled beside her, stroking his moustache 
with a grey-gloved hand, and staring ahead at the 
Arc de Triomphe which straddled the sunset. 

Claridge’s Hotel—the Carlton—swing around a 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


7 2 

corner. These French chauffeurs were the most 
reckless- 

Here and there lights flowered like pale jonquils. 
A black, hairy man stood on the Avenue Marceau 
holding a cluster of red and green balloons. Paris 
swam in a rosy mist. You only had to let yourself 
go- 

“By the way, old girl, got any money ?” He 
said it casually, as if it didn’t matter whether she 
had or not. 

“Have you?” But she fumbled in her purse. A 
hundred franc note, some of those brass coins that 
looked like gold, a wilted fifty centime bill mended 
with a strip of stamp paper. 

He peered over her shoulder. “Lend me the hun¬ 
dred.” 

Lend it to him? A quaint way of putting it. He 
took it. Cocked his hat more boldly over a slightly 
bloodshot eye, and shifted to a brisker pose. “Here 
we are. Listen now, Nita, you leave everything 
to me.” 

The way he said that made her nervous. She 
strained forward, looking ahead. The taxi turned 
into one of those bleak expensive streets; drew up 
before a stone house of slender windows and carv¬ 
ings over a wide black door. Why, this wasn’t a 
hotel! 

“Wait here for me.” Hal sprang out, rang the 
bell. She sat gaping up at the shapely facade. What 
did he-? 




BIG GAME 


73 


The door opened a crack. A little man peered 
suspiciously around the edge. Hal’s shoulders 
moved in self-assured advance. The door opened 
wider on a vestibule. She saw Hal and the little 
man in animated talk, outlined against white steps. 
Hal took out his* wallet, showed something that 
looked like a card. Put back his wallet, slid a hand 
in his pocket, appeared to be shaking hands with 
the little man. 

Now he turned, blocking the doorway. His eyes 
seemed to march forward and give her orders. 
“Isn’t it a "bore, Nita? Monsieur Raton never got 
the Putnams’ telegram. Must have gone astray— 
beastly service, isn’t it?” 

Monsieur Raton—a telegram—the Putnams! 
Her face twisted into some kind of idiotic expres¬ 
sion. “Dear me—really!” 

Hal gave her no time. “Well, now we’re here, 
we’d better spend the night, anyway. What say, 
Nita?” 

She said nothing. 

“Ma femme est fatiguee. Ce voyage de Londres 
est mauvais” Hal turned to the little man, who 
flapped his shoulders and hands and stared sharply 
at the trunks in the second taxi. 

So she had come from London, had she? Oh, 
why hadn’t she insisted that Hal tell her what it 
was all about? He was at the taxi door, helping 
her out. He leaned close, his face secret, familiar. 
“It’s all right. I’ll explain later. Come on, Nita.” 


74 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


There seemed really nothing else to do. The 
Raton person bowed from the threshold—a mean 
little man with eyes like arithmetic, adding up. Hal, 
at her elbow, steered her along. 

She was in a large hall. The chauffeurs, humped 
under the trunks, brushed past, wheezed up a circu¬ 
lar staircase of white marble, Monsieur Raton, 
spidery, leading the way. A neat fat woman of 
pinkish surfaces, bulged, gaping from a doorway. 
Hal spoke to her in a loud assured voice. This 
was Madame Raton, no doubt? His friends the 
Putnams had so often spoken of her. 

What were they doing here, and who were these 
Putnams? The name sounded vaguely familiar. 
Hal drew her into a room of soft shadows. Damask 
portieres closed behind them. He snapped on a 
light. What a beautiful room! She clutched his 
arm, staring about at the creamy tints, the damask, 
the tapestries, the old gilded shapes and mirrors in 
which she saw reflected a little woman with very 
red lips, a tall, blurry-faced man. 

She whispered—“Whose house is this?” 

“Ours for the present. Be back in a moment.” 
He nodded and grinned. Left her there. 

Of course it was fantastic. A host or hostess 
would presently appear with nipped gestures of an¬ 
noyance at being so intruded upon by unwelcome 
guests. She tiptoed over the Aubusson carpet, 
watching the door while she fingered ivories, old 
leather bound books. On a little marquetry table 


BIG GAME 


75 

stood the photograph of a young woman in a silver 
frame. Where had she seen that face before? A 
grand piano nosed forward from a corner of the 
room like a sleek animal waiting to be stroked. 
She longed to touch the keys. Didn’t dare. 

“Your room’s ready, Nita.” Hal’s jovial voice 
startled her. He stood in the door, smiling at her. 
She followed him through the hall, up the stairs, 
into a pink and white room of rosewood and laces. 
There was a chaise' longue heaped with embroidered 
cushions, a bed, canopied and festooned. The 
trunks showed up big and black against the light 
carpet. 

“Hal, what does this mean?” She demanded an 
answer from under light flattened brows. 

A finger to his lips, he tiptoed to the door, arched 
himself over the keyhole. Evidently no one there. 
Good! Then he turned with an engaging air of 
candour. Phew! I don’t mind telling you, old 
dear, that I wasn’t sure we’d get in. Lucky I hap¬ 
pened to have Putnam’s card and that hundred 
francs handy.” 

Oh, dear, she might have known that something 
was wrong. Her head felt hot. In that steam- 
heated room, torpor gained on her. Hal was look¬ 
ing at her brightly as if he expected her to pat him 
on the back and say “Clever boy!” 

She took off her velvet toque that pressed on her 
hot head, ran her fingers through moist clinging 
hair. Well, now that he had “got in” as he put it, 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


76 

she wanted to know how they were going to get 
out. “Better tell me everything, Hal. Who are 
these Putnams? What about that telegram that 
never arrived? I can’t understand why you have 
to do these things.” She looked at him wtih hard, 
bitter eyes. “Really, Hal, if you’ve got us into an¬ 
other mess, I’ll never forgive you.” 

She would always forgive him. He knew it. 
“The Putnams? You remember them, Nita,” he 
began in a chatty voice. But he wasn’t so confident 
as he had been downstairs. “Here, old girl, you look 
tired. Do lie down.” He fussed about her, led her 
to the chaise longue, propped cushions behind her 
back. 

She wasn’t going to be put off like that, though. 
“I’m waiting to hear, Hal.” 

“Well, now, don’t you remember that night we 
had supper at the Elephant Rouge? The Putnams 
sat next to us. Nice chap, Putnam. He and I had 
a long talk.” 

Those people! The woman in the silver frame 
was Mrs. Putnam, of course. But they didn’t know 
the Putnams. Hal had picked the man up that 
night. “Why, Hal, we only saw them once. They 
were leaving for London or India or somewhere 
the next day.” 

“Pre-cisely.” He dropped a thick lid over an eye, 
jiggled from heel to toe with a little seesaw motion. 
He acted as if, with extraordinary intelligence, she 
had guessed a riddle. But she wasn’t going to help 


BIG GAME 


77 


him out so he had to continue. “They were leav¬ 
ing for London. You see you do remember, my 
dear. And then they’re going off to India for a 
bit—big game hunting. Putnam wanted to rent this 
house. Told me all about it. You weren’t lis¬ 
tening.” 

“You don’t mean to tell me that we’re renting 
this house from the Putnams?” Her voice rose 
shrill, worried. She slid forward to the edge of the 
chaise longue, her feet touching the floor. 

“Well, you might say it amounts to that.” He 
fished for his cigarette case, lit a cigarette. 

“Amounts to what? For Heaven’s sake, Hal, 
don’t throw matches on this carpet.” Oh, he was 
exasperating! “Do the Putnams know we’re taking 
their house?” 

She had him there. Of course they didn’t know. 
Mrs. Putnam would never rent her house to stran¬ 
gers. She remembered now the supper as through 
a mist of lights and music. A gay place the Ele¬ 
phant Rouge. Major Brassington-Welsh in a jovial 
vein, thrusting cigars, champagne, anecdotes on a 
new acquaintance. The Putnam woman hadn’t liked 
it. Her cool ennui had been wafted like a thin 
draft from a distant source over her too sociable 
husband’s blond head, reaching Hal, who hadn’t 
felt it, reaching Nita, who had. 

She taxed him again. “Hal, they don’t know?” 

How could they know when they were in London, 
he blustered. But he meant to write Putnam, of 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


78 

course. Make it all right with him. A matter of 

business. If she would only listen - 

“I’m listening—Hal, please don’t throw ashes on 
the floor here. This isn’t a hotel.” 

He went through an elaborate show of putting 
out his cigarette in a crystal receiver beside the bed. 
Now then, he could explain the whole affair quite 
simply. 

When he was explaining anything, he always 
walked up and down as if he were on the deck of 
a ship that rolled a bit. It needed all his attention 
to keep his balance. She watched him. 

It was like this, he said. Billings was thinking 
of opening a Paris Branch —Biscuits Billings —good 
idea, wasn’t it? Have to find the right man, though, 
to direct the thing. What about Major Brassing- 
ton-Welsh? Just the man for it. He stood a 
moment beaming upon her, twirling his moustache. 

“Oh, Hal, has he said anything to you?” She 
had always hoped for something like this. Why, 

if it were true, it would be the most wonderful- 

He patted her on the shoulder. Well, nothing 
was settled. Nothing ever could have been settled 
if they had stayed in that beastly hole of a hotel. 
What Billings wanted, of course, was a man with 
a solid background, a man with a clever little woman 
who could entertain. Billings knew the value of 
social prestige—no fool, Billings. He would ex¬ 
pect— 





BIG GAME 


79 


“But, Hal, we don’t know anyone to entertain. 
And this house—we have no right here.” 

“Now, Nita, we got in, didn’t we? I tell you 
I’ll fix it up with Putnam. Once I’m appointed di¬ 
rector of an office here, you and I will have the 
finest little position ever-” 

Suppose he were telling the truth! Suppose he 
could pay the Putnams later. Why shouldn’t he? 
Oh, how she wanted to believe! She wished he 
wouldn’t look sideways down his nose as if he were 
peeking at her from around a corner. Impress 
Billings. That wasn’t a bad idea. 

“But, Hal, if Billings doesn’t give you that job? 
How could we ever make it right with the Put¬ 
nams 7” 

“You leave that all to me.” He looked so strong 
and sure of himself, as if everything were settled. 
The keys jingled as he bent over the trunks. 

Give Hal his chance. It wouldn’t do any harm 
to stay on here for a little while. Imagine waking 
up in this lovely room after that horrid little hotel; 
after all the hotels! 

“Hal, don’t unpack our old things. The Ratons 
will think-” 

“Think what, my dear girl?” But he knew what 
she meant. “Any objections to my taking out my 
dinner jacket? Madame Raton is fixing us up a 
bite here.” 

“Let me, Hal. You’re mussing everything.” 
Yes, they had better dress. She would wear her 




8 o 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


black satin. The sequin gown was too showy. Take 
a warm bath first in that beautiful white bathroom. 
What was Hal doing now? “For goodness’ sake, 
don’t take out that awful dressing gown. You can’t 
wear that here.” 

He stood in his shirt sleeves, his hair rumpled. 
“What d’you want me to wear then to-morrow for 
breakfast?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Your mauve pyjamas are all 
right. Lock the trunks again.” She fluttered to the 
closet, hung up her black serge, her sequin gown. 
The hangers were padded and smelt of sachet. There 
were dozens of them, and places for shoes and- 

“Nita, where’s the whiskey?” Hal shouted from 
the bathroom. 

“You’re not going to drink that horrid stuff 
now?” 

“Just a snack. I’ve got a glass here. Must have 
caught a bit of a chill driving up.” 

Get him his beastly bottle. “You can’t leave it 

out, Hal. Hide it in the clothes hamper- Do 

rinse the glass-” 

“Oh, hell, Nita, what’s the matter with you!” 
Grumblings and rumblings from the bathroom. 

The black satin did very well. Just the note 
for a quiet evening. The chiffon in the neck needed 
changing. She must get some to-morrow. You 
never got tired of black satin. 

“Nita, what say if we get the Billings up here 



BIG GAME 


81 


after dinner?” Hal stood admiring himself in the 
mirror. 

She didn’t want the Billings to-night. 

She and Hal sat alone in the large tapestried din¬ 
ing-room. The round table was like a glassy pool 
in which rose-coloured lights were softly reflected. 
A simple dinner indeed! Pheasant, endive salad, 
Brie cheese and a tart. Chablis that gleamed topaz 
in their glasses. Her smile lifted her face into radi¬ 
ance. She moved her shoulders and wrists daintily. 
Talked in a low polite voice, careful of what she 
said. Raton might understand English. 

Raton nearly spoiled everything. His little eyes 
added up and added up as he padded about the 
table. He was like a small sly animal, sniffing things 
out. She wished he wouldn’t apologise so much. 
He apologised because Monsieur and Madame had 
put their silver away. He apologised for the din¬ 
ner. Madame Raton presented her excuses. It 
was true that in her time she had been cook in 
very great houses. 

It wouldn’t do to be too enthusiastic. Hal over¬ 
did it, she thought. She must warn him not to be 
too familiar with this Raton person. Smile upon 
him with a shade of condescension. Yes, everything 
was quite delicious. Of course it was a picnic! 

They were both in the salon among those lovely 
things. Hal smoked his cigar, she lit a cigarette. 

“You look rippin’ to-night, old girl.” 

She drifted to the piano. She hadn’t played for 


82 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


years. Hal lounged over to her side. She tilted 
her head to smile at him. Good old Hal! Her 
fingers moved shyly touching the keys. Try simple 
melodies—a false note—never mind. Hal’s ear 
was not critical. He nodded, and hummed out of 
tune. 

Strange how she felt, sad with a kind of yearn¬ 
ing and yet happy with Hal anchored there beside 
her. He and she hadn’t been like this for a long 
time. Why couldn’t it always be like this? 

“I say, trot us out something a bit gayer, Nita.” 

One of those jazz tunes, he meant. She tried. 
Jangled a syncopated chord, but somehow it didn’t 
go here. She was growing sentimental. She thought 
of her mother, of the days when she used to take 
piano lessons. How she had hated to study! 

Hal was good to her. He was good to her. 

3 

Hal was bringing Billings back that afternoon. 
She waited for them in the salon . If it hadn’t been 
for the Ratons, and Putnam ghosts in the air (very 
snippy ghosts at that), she might have spent a 
pleasant day alone in the house. She had sent Hal 
off because she wanted to be alone. But from the 
moment she left her room, the Ratons sneaked after 
her. If she went upstairs, one of them managed 
to be there, if she went downstairs, she bumped into 
the other one. It was either Madame Raton 


BIG GAME 


83 

wheezing from a scramble up the back stairs, pre¬ 
tending to straighten rugs in the wide gallery over¬ 
looking the hall, or it was Monsieur Raton potter¬ 
ing about the dining-room. You would have thought 
they expected her to steal something; to pick the 
locks of the cellar and linen closet, or to secrete 
in the simple folds of her blouse and skirt, any of 
the small rare ornaments which might happen to 
take her fancy. 

Their busy innocent manner didn’t deceive her. 
“Did Madame ring?”— “Would Madame like 
any help unpacking her trunks?” 

“No—no, thank you. Quite all right, thank 
you.” 

Madame Raton had a pulpous caterpillar smile 
that seemed to crawl away when she thought you 
weren’t looking. For a fat woman, she moved with 
a treacherous speed, silent as a Japanese. Monsieur 
Raton’s shoes squeaked. 

If this was the way they took care of the house, 
no wonder there was dust everywhere. She knew 
how a house should be kept up. There were hand¬ 
some houses in Stamford. Mrs. Mason’s, for in¬ 
stance, with all that old Colonial stuff in it, and her 
own mother’s house, which wasn’t so grand but 
which, at least, shone bright and speckless. 

Those Ratons caught her dusting with her hand¬ 
kerchief the old refectoire table in the hall. They 
didn’t like it, of course. Monsieur Raton veno¬ 
mously apologised—“If we had known that Mon- 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


84 

sieur and Madame were coming, we should have 
had the house in order. It is regrettable that the 
telegram from Monsieur Putnam did not arrive.” 

Oh, yes, the telegram! Better speak softly and 
smile. “We are very comfortable, thank you.” 

Now she had shut herself in the salon. But she 
couldn’t close out the Putnams. She felt them 
everywhere: in the subdued arrangement of rich 
objects, in polished surfaces, in damask and high 
ceilings. She moved the photograph of Mrs. Put¬ 
nam to a darker corner. Hateful, those slender¬ 
necked anaemic women! She could imagine Mrs. 
Putnam in a tea-gown receiving guests. Well, she 
didn’t have a tea-gown, and anyway Billings never 
took tea. Should she change into the black satin 
and pretend an early dinner? Those Ratons were 
prowling around outside. Stay as she was, rather 
than bump into them again. 

If only Hal had settled things with Billings! A 
decent job was the solution. She must manage some¬ 
how—Billings admired her—those large, white¬ 
faced men had more red blood in them. 

That was the doorbell. She heard Hal’s voice, 
round and hearty. She hurried forward. 

Hal hadn’t settled anything except probably bills 
for several rounds of drinks. One look at him was 
enough. Not a care in the world. He brought with 
him the warm pungent atmosphere of cafes, the gen¬ 
erous ease of good fellows. Billings gripped her 
hand. She toned her own greeting to the room. 


BIG GAME 


85 

Mrs. Billings was well, she hoped? So glad he’d 
come. He was their first visitor. What did he 
think of their new quarters? 

“It’s great. Beats any hotel I’ve ever been in.” 
He had a trick of half closing his eyes. His voice 
drifted. His large white face took on a deceptively 
dreamy expression. He looked at her. She wished 
she had put on the black satin. 

“That’s what I’ve been telling him all day. Finest 
house in Paris,” Hal boisterously put in. “Nothing 
like it. Your own home. The best little woman 
in the world waiting for you. Nothing too fine for 
her. You’ll have to admit that, old man.” A bit 
throaty the way he said that. 

Billings admitted that nothing was too fine for 
her. As if on springs, his eyes opened wide, in¬ 
tensely alive, intensely blue. 

Her lips could take on a lovely, an alluring curve. 
She smiled with a tilting motion of head, a loosen¬ 
ing of the little clutching lines around her eyes. 
“Well, if we’re to stay in Paris, it’s nicer to have 
a house.” Very neatly hinted, she thought. 

“Better come to the States, Major, and bring the 
Missis.” Billings strolled about, his hands in his 
pockets, bending to squint at an ornament. The 
room seemed to make him restless. He sank finally 
into a tapestried armchair. 

“Take a house here. That’s the way to know a 
country.” Hal thrust out his chest, straddling a 
flowered design on the rug. “Meet the right people. 


86 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Entertain and all that sort of thing. England’s 
the place, though. If we were all in England now, 
you’d be staying with us in Brassington Hall. Finest 
old-” 

She got near enough to him to lay a hand on his 
arm. Pretty picture. Little green-eyed woman 
smiling up at her big good-natured husband. Her 
fingertips dug in, pinched. 

“Ouch, Nita. What the devil-?” 

“Poor old dear, your neuritis again?” He knew 
perfectly well what she meant. Some day, someone 
would accept one of these vague invitations. Then 
what-! 

“Hal, perhaps Mr. Billings would like a high¬ 
ball?” 

“Certainly—certainly. Good idea.” With a 

promising air of hospitality, he bustled out. 

Billings, deep in the cushioned chair, was staring 
at her feet. Well, she wasn’t ashamed of them, 
especially in these patent leather slippers. But if 
she were Mrs. Billings, she wouldn’t trust a man 
with an eye like that. The way he looked at women 
in restaurants! His idea of Paris, probably. Better 
be a little careful. Bright, but not too coquettish. 

“Hal’s like a child with a new toy,” she said in¬ 
dulgently. “So full of enthusiasm. He’s that way 
about everything. Don’t you think enthusiasm is 
valuable in business, Mr. Billings?” 

“Sure.” He looked at her curiously. Swung a 
leg over his knee. 





BIG GAME 


87 

She had to go on now. She sat down near him, 
not too near. Spoke in an intimate confiding man¬ 
ner. “D’ you know I’m very ambitious for Hal.” 
She shouldn’t sound too eager. “You big men aren’t 
the only ones who want power.” Say that lightly 
with a little laugh. “Give Hal a chance to make 
good and-” 

“Hasn’t he made good?” Quite another Billings, 
this. Blue eyes boring through her. 

That was a mistake. “Of course,” hastily. “But 
you know how it is. Hal’s had so many offers since 
the war. He wants to find just the right thing— 
something with a future. He’d like to be here in 
Paris for a while anyway-” 

“Don’t blame him.” Billings, suddenly genial, 
lifted himself with one of his brisk movements from 
his chair; strolled toward her. “You’re a wonder¬ 
ful little saleswoman,” he said. 

Now what did he mean by that? “Look here, 
Mr. Billings, I’m not-” 

“That’s all right. Everyone sells things, don’t 
they?” 

She didn’t like his tone. Keep her hands still in 
her lap, keep her feet still. Wished her cheeks 
didn’t feel so hot. “Sells or buys—at bargain 
prices,” she retorted. 

How he laughed, the insolent creature! But he 
stopped short, smooth as a high-powered machine. 
“I’m always ready to look over a bargain,” said he. 





88 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“Perhaps you don’t know, Mr. Billings. We took 
this house because Hal tells me that you-” 

“Here we are!—here we are!” Hal had to 
blunder in followed by Raton, who peered inquisi¬ 
tively at Billings from between the necks of bottles 
on a tray he carried. He set the tray down, sidled 
out. 

Ice clinked in tall glasses. Hal, the jovial host, 
presided over the tray. “A wee nippie, old girl?” 

“No, thank you. Hal, I was just saying to Mr. 
Billings that you’d be the very person to man- 


“Look out— Sorry!” Hal tipped over a bottle. 
Caught it in time. 

He’d tipped that bottle on purpose. His voice 
boomed on and on, filling the room. Very amusing 
no doubt, those old stories of his. Billings laughed. 
The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke coarsened the 
air. 

For some reason, Hal didn’t want her to inter¬ 
fere. You never knew with Hal what he wanted. 
But this time she wouldn’t stand any nonsense. Sud¬ 
denly, she hated their voices, hated their faces, hated 
the way they lounged around smoking and drinking. 

“Nita, wake up, old thing.” Hal stood ruddily 
over her. “Billings suggests that we make a night 
of it. Stop at his hotel for Mrs. Billings. We’ll 
dine at the Elephant Rouge” 

“I’m a little tired.” She meant him to see that 
she wasn’t pleased. 




BIG GAME 


89 


“Come on, Mrs. Welsh,” Billings urged. 

She hated to be called Mrs. Welsh. “Really, 
I-” 

“Be a sport, Nita.” They stood on either side 
of her, tall men, red and white. 

She wasn’t going to be left alone all evening. 
“Oh, all right. I’ll have to dress, though.” 

“Good girl.” Hal, very expansive, patted her 
on the back. “Like to see the house, Billings, while 
we’re waiting for Nita?” 

She’d wear her sequin gown. Didn’t matter if 
the men weren’t in dress clothes. Mrs. Billings 
would look dowdy, of course. All the better. 


4 

Was there ever such a nuisance! In the sequin 
gown and a large black hat which shadowed the gold 
of her hair and brought out evening lights in her 
eyes, she had deliberately keyed herself up to the 
occasion. In spite of Hal’s irresponsible behaviour, 
she meant that very night to coax Billings into 
promising that he would open a Paris branch for 
his biscuits. 

Now here she was waiting for Mrs. Billings in 
the drearily rich atmosphere of the Billings’ private 
salon, from whose windows she could gaze, for dis¬ 
traction, on the handsome proportions of the Place 
Vendome. The two men had gone on, as they said, 
to order dinner. They had gone on, in reality, to 



90 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

escape waiting for anyone who was not in their 
festive mood. Mrs. Billings hadn’t liked being 
fetched to make a night of it. Billings hadn’t liked 
her not liking it, and had told her so in the curt 
tones of a man accustomed to command. 

She couldn’t help, in her own invested brightness, 
serving as a contrast to the bleached manner of 
Billings’ wife. Hardly tactful of him, though, to 
point out Mrs. Brassington-Welsh as an example of 
liveliness to be followed. She wasn’t so sure that 
Mrs. Billings couldn’t have answered back, precipi¬ 
tating the domestic crisis that had hung for a mo¬ 
ment, unexploded, in the air. But Mrs. Billings had 
only looked at her husband with those quiet brown 
eyes of hers, and said she would go. 

She had been dressing now for over half-an-hour. 
Heavens, what chances that woman wasted! All 
those clothes and nothing fit to wear; all those 
jewels and she never wore them. 

Wonder what she could be doing in there! No 
harm in tiptoeing to the door and listening. There 
came a faint sound that she recognised. She knocked 
gently; opened the door. 

Mrs. Billings lay on the bed, face downwards, a 
limp slender figure in a plain corset cover and 
starched petticoat. There were clothes on the floor, 
clothes on chairs: the contents of boxes and closets 
littered about; a jewel case open on the dressing- 
table. 

Mrs. Billings was crying. Strange to see another 


BIG GAME 


9i 


woman cry. Should she tiptoe away again? Bill¬ 
ings’ fault, this. Brutes men were. 

Mrs. Billings lifted her head. She must hate to 
be seen like this. “I have a headache. I don’t think 
I can—” She flopped back on the bed. 

Of course it wasn’t any of her business. The eve¬ 
ning would be more successful from every point of 
view without Mrs. Billings. But it would be rather 
beastly to leave now. There had been nights, she 
remembered, when lying beside Hal in the stale 
darkness of hotels she had cried just as Mrs. Billings 
was crying. And she had something to cry about, 
too. “Don’t you think it might do you good?” she 
said a little formally. 

Mrs. Billings tried a moment for control. “I 
can’t—oh, I can’t.” 

Very well then, she couldn’t. You couldn’t force 
her to go. “Can I get you anything? Perhaps some 
aspirin-” 

“It isn’t the headache. I’m ashamed of myself 
for acting this way. Mrs. Welsh, if I could only 
make you understand. I’m not the kind of woman 
to break down over trifles.” She got up from the 
bed with a resolute movement, smoothing back loose 
strands of hair. 

After all, women had a rotten hard time of it 
in this world. “Look here, Mrs. Billings, I shouldn’t 
let anything that your husband said--” 

“It isn’t his fault, it’s mine.” Mrs. Billings faced 
her, suddenly animated. “For years he’s worked 




92 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


with an idea of coming over here for a real holiday. 
I never wanted to come. You’re an American, aren’t 
you, Mrs. Welsh? Perhaps you know, then, what it 
is to feel homesick.” 

Yes, she knew. But Mrs. Billings could go home 
sooner or later, and find her house, her friends, 
her charities; whereas she—well, that was another 
story. 

“I don’t want to be selfish,” Mrs. Billings con¬ 
tinued with a sigh. “But when I think that Mr. 
Billings wants to spend a year over here, it’s almost 
more than I can bear. It seems to me such a waste 
when you have a home of your own and responsi¬ 
bilities, don’t you think so, Mrs. Welsh? I tell my 
husband that, and he says I spoil everything for 
him.” 

It was strange being here alone with Mrs. Billings 
and hearing her talk like that. (Wonder if there 
was any decent powder on the dressing table—prob¬ 
ably only talcum.) “A year passes quickly.” That 
was trite enough consolation. 

“Did you know, Mrs. Welsh, that I was Mr. 
Billings’ secretary before we married?” Mrs. Billings 
stood very intense in her ribbonless corset cover and 
crumpled white petticoat. “Yes, for six years. It 
was absorbing work. Mr. Billings is an absorbing 
man. He depended on me then. And he expects 
the same efficiency from me in this kind of life as 
I could give him in our business relations. But you 
see, I can’t. I haven’t the training.” 


BIG GAME 


93 


It needed, indeed, quite a lot of training to keep 
up with Billings. “Why do you let him absorb 
you?” She sounded a little impatient. Eight o’clock, 
and those men waiting at the Elephant Rouge . She 
was hungry—Billings would be furious. 

“I don’t know whether you can understand, Mrs. 
Welsh. You’re so sure of yourself socially, so gay 
and brilliant. My husband thinks you’re the clev¬ 
erest woman he ever met.” 

She could smile at that. A glance in the mirror 
showed her a large black hat under which the smile 
gleamed like a red stitch. If she were clever, she 
would be attending to her dinner and business at the 
Elephant Rouge this moment. 

Mrs. Billings moved nervously to and fro. Came 
toward her to clasp her hand. “I feel I need a 
friend—I—oh, Mrs. Welsh, what shall I do? I 
haven’t told you everything. He leaves me alone so 
much of the time. I just sit here and wonder where 
he is, and when he comes back he’s irritable, and 
critical. I don’t know what to do.” 

“Suppose you dress.” She was beginning to like 
Mrs. Billings. 

“I look a fright in everything I put on.” 

“You have no right to look a fright.” Do her 
good to shake her up a bit. “If you want to please 
your husband-” 

“I see that.” Mrs. Billings was crying softly 
again. “It’s this life here. He never used to care 
for such things.” 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


94 

“Don’t you believe it. They always do when they 
get a chance. You’re a very lucky woman, Mrs. 
Billings. You don’t know how lucky. Why, if I—” 
Stop right there. This friendship game led into deep 
waters. 

Mrs. Billings was staring at her with a sympa¬ 
thetic expression. “Aren’t you happy? Why, I 
thought—oh, I don’t mean-” 

Throw your head back, Nita. Laugh. “I?—I’m 
ridiculously happy. But really we must hurry. Will 
you let me advise you about your get-up to-night? 
I think I can suggest a few things—” What a 
fool she was! Educating this young woman who, 
if smartly dressed, would most certainly discover and 
use her fresh attractions on an evening when she, 
Nita, needed to charm alone. 

Mrs. Billings flushed a becoming rose colour. 
“You’re wonderful.” 

It was something to be wonderful! She went 
briskly to the clothes closets. Heavens, where had 
the woman found all these hideous expensive gowns. 
Two closets packed full, not to mention the stuff 
littered around the room. How could you choose 
out of all these things! “May I see that one—the 
red velvet?” 

“Oh that!” Mrs. Billings raised her quite lovely 
arms to reach the dress. “I’ve never worn it. Isn’t 
it a little too conspicuous?” 

“It won’t hurt you to be conspicuous.” Might 
as well go the whole way now she’d started. 



BIG GAME 


95 

“Where are the scissors?” Clip—snip—pull off a 
silly gold tassel, a large red flower at the waist. 
“Can I have that black jet ornament I see on that 
blue dress over there? And if I can have a needle 
and thread-” 

Mrs. Billings hovered over her, flushed, excited. 
“Shan’t I ring for my maid? I hate you to bother.” 

No bother at all. If Mrs. Billings only knew 
what familiar work it was—ripping, adjusting, fixing 
over. Well, she never thought that she’d be doing 
anything like this for another woman. She stood 
up, flecked away loose threads that clung to the 
sequins. 

“Now then, sit down, and I’ll do your hair.” 

“How can I ever thank you?” 

Fine spun brown hair that slipped like water 
through one’s fingers. Have it waved to-morrow. 
For to-night, draw it back from that low rather good 
brow, slink it over the ears, snuggle it tight in the 
back. Her fingers moved swiftly. A large tortoise¬ 
shell comb—the very thing. Now powder, rouge 
for the lips. 

“Do you think my husband will like me to make 
up this way?” 

“Rather nice women rouge their lips, you know.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean-” 

She might be a splendid secretary, but as a woman 
of fashion she was in her infancy. Here now, the 
dress. It draped itself around the slim figure. Jew¬ 
els. What jewels that woman had. 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


96 

“My pearls are in the safe downstairs.” 

Oh, she was beginning to be interested, was she? 
“Never mind. These will do.” Should say they 
would do. Fascinating long ruby earrings, a ruby 
brooch, ruby rings. 

“There you are.” 

A long mirror gave back a tall young woman 
in supple red velvet; red lips parted, silky brown 
hair folded in a casque around a small head. The 
young woman smiled. 

The telephone. Mrs. Billings, before the mirror, 
paid no attention to it. Of course it was Hal. 

“That you, Nita? What the devil is the matter? 
Why don’t you and Mrs. B. come along?” 

“We’re coming, Hal.” There, now, in her hurry, 
she tore her sleeve. No time to mend anything 
either. She saw herself in the mirror next to Mrs. 
Billings. Perhaps if she tilted her hat a bit, it 
would be smarter. Large hats, after all, made one 
look shorter. Not when you were sitting at table, 
though. 

“Shall I wear a hat?” Mrs. Billings was pulling 
out more boxes. 

“No, go as you are.” She felt tired and hungry. 
Perhaps she had better take a stitch in that sleeve. 
Quick then. 

“This sealskin is all right, isn’t it?” Mrs. Billings 
held up a magnificent fur. 

“All right?— Oh, yes. Rather.” There were 


BIG GAME 


97 

limits to what one woman could be expected to do 
for another. 

“I never can tell you how grateful I am. You 
look tired, Mrs. Welsh. It’s my fault, keeping you 
from your dinner.” 

“Tired! I’m never tired!” She leaned back in 
the limousine that carried them smoothly through 
street after street, all lighted and gay. Shops, cafes, 
people moving briskly. She wished she were going 
home to bed. 

The Elephant Rouge . It was almost worth it to 
see Hal’s and Mr. Billings’ expressions as Mrs. 
Billings, a little self-conscious, made her way to the 
table where the two men stood. 

No chance of getting anything out of Billings 
to-night. He sat there now his face turned toward 
his wife like a powerful limelight in which she glowed 
with increasing animation. Hal, in a magnificent 
mood, rumbled out compliments. He had never seen 
Mrs. Billings look so well. That gown she had on 
was simply ripping. 

“Nita, my dear, we’ll have to get you something 
like it. Red’s the colour—eh, Billings ? I always tell 
Nita-” 

“While you’re about it, you can buy me rubies and 
a sealskin coat,” she said sweetly. That held him 
quiet. Oh well, better enjoy herself. Billings was 
paying this time for the dinner. Another glass of 
Pommeroy? Yes, thank you. The poulet en cocotte 



98 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

was delicious. Her lips curled, uncurled, curled 
again. 

A little over a week ago, she and Hal had been 
sitting at the small table opposite where now sat 
a fleshy old satyr gobbling his food. He thought 
she was staring at him and leered with piggish eyes. 
A painted young woman in black velvet with huge 
pearls in her ears and a pale young man sat sipping 
liqueurs at the table the Putnams had had that 
eventful night. Same background; same red ele¬ 
phant balloons floating in the thickening air; same 
excited faces, bored faces, hands holding glasses, 
cups, cigarettes. A fox trot; couples see-sawing. 

Strange how life went. If Hal hadn’t picked up 
Putnam that night, where would they be now? Back 
in the soiled pink room of the little hotel. Where 
would they be to-morrow ? If Billings didn’t- 

Mrs. Billings smiled tenderly at her. Not a bad 
sort, Mrs. Billings, after all. 

Hal was bragging. She knew that tone. Better 
look after him. His loosened tongue wagged like 
a bell. “Remember when we were here last, Nita? 
The Putnams-” 

“The Putnams!” from Mr. and Mrs. Billings. 
“The Gerald Putnams?” 

Oh, if she could only reach Hal’s foot. Make 
him look at her. What did he have to go and drag 
in the Putnams for! Change the subject quickly. 
“Hal, dear, do you remember the last time we heard 
that ‘Blues’ they’re playing? Makes me want to 




BIG GAME 


99 

dance. Is there anything more fascinating than these 
new jazz tunes?” Fingers on the table tapping the 
rhythm. Mrs. Brassington-Welsh, suddenly very 
gay; green eyes greener, light brows lifted. 

“Eh? The‘Blues’? Yes—oh, yes!” Hal looked 
as if she had waked him up in the middle of the 
night. 

“Putnam used to be in the automobile business,” 
Billings pursued. “Great friend of ours, wasn’t he, 
Mary? Someone told us he was in Paris. I’d like 
to see him again.” 

Hal had to blunder on. “Gone to India after big 
game. Nice chap. Don’t care much for his wife.” 

“I wish we could have seen him,” Mrs. Billings 
said in a lively voice. She kept tasting the red on 
her lips like a child eating candy. “He used to 
come into the office all the time. He and I got on 
famously. You never knew, Bert, but he tried to 
get me away from you when his secretary left him to 
marry.” That was what a half a glass of cham¬ 
pagne did to her! Billings didn’t like it. You could 
see he was annoyed, the way he thrust out that jaw 
of his. 

Hal grew fussy, purplish about the cheeks. Ac¬ 
cepted a cigar, lit it, and on an artificial gust of good 
cheer, launched on one of his oldest stories. 

Coffee. Liqueurs. A drop of cognac would do 
her good. No use to worry, but if Billings ever heard 
now that the house belonged to Putnam, he would 
think it queer. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one 


100 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


little bit. She felt as if someone had slid a small 
chunk of ice down her back. 

They were going on to a musical Revue, then to 
supper. Mrs. Billings nestled up to her in the motor. 

“Oh, I’m having such a good time, and it’s all 
your doing, Mrs. Welsh. Will you come shopping 
with me, to-morrow? You’ll tell me what to get, 
won’t you?” 

Yes, she would go shopping. Yes, it was fun, 
wasn’t it? She adored these parties. No, Hal didn’t 
dance. His game leg, you know. 

Would the evening never end? It was positively 
indecent the way Billings flirted with his wife. Wish 
the Putnam name hadn’t come up. You never knew 
what might happen. 

5 

The Billings were coming to dinner. Hal never 
should have invited them to the house with the 
Ratons in such a poisonous temper, and everything 
going wrong. 

It was all very well to have brought Billings and 
his wife together. You couldn’t wedge them apart 
since he had seen his wife in that red velvet gown. 
The money he spent on her, and the money she let 
him spend! Shopping every day. Gowns, lingerie, 
hats. And the coiffeurs, manicures, masseuses, 
swarming about. You wouldn’t know Mrs. Billings. 
But you could see how, when once she made up her 


BIG GAME 


101 


mind to a thing, she could carry it through. Yes, 
she was certainly efficient, and really quite a decent 
sort. No end grateful, too. Insisted on giving “dear 
Nita” (it was Nita now) a few rather lovely pres¬ 
ents. With the background of the house and all 
accepting these things didn’t imply humiliation. That 
lace morning cap, for instance, matched the lace and 
rosebuds in the bedroom, and the fur-lined slippers 
went with her quilted blue wrapper. Of course the 
black lace tea-gown from Paquin and the hat from 
Madeleine were a bit exaggerated as gifts from an 
acquaintance. But it wasn’t as if she were accepting 
commissions from dressmakers and modistes for 
showing Mrs. Billings around. Hal told her she was 
a fool not to do just that. 

He had been in a vile temper all week, stalking 
about with that mottled bloodshot look he got when 
he was worried. She couldn’t help it if he were 
worried. It was his own fault. He hadn’t written 
Putnam. At least he wouldn’t say he had, and he 
wouldn’t confess he hadn’t. And, as for being Di¬ 
rector of any Paris Branch, it was another of those 
beautiful dreams of his. Probably Billings had said 
—“Some day I may open a Paris Branch. Think 
Billings Biscuits would go here, Major?” And Hal 
had seen it all done. If he would only leave it to 
her, she might, through Mrs. Billings, work some¬ 
thing out. No hope of reaching Billings direct any 
more. 

Meanwhile, the Ratons had drained Hal dry. She; 


102 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


knew, because while he was taking his bath, she had 
examined the contents of his wallet. Lean as a 
fasting priest, it was. And only yesterday he had 
had a beastly scene with Raton, ending very unwisely 
in Hal’s calling Raton a blinking bloodsucking rat. 
Which was true enough, but hardly helpful. Nor 
was it pleasant for her when Hal, after cursing 
Raton in French and English with a little Arabic 
thrown in, had stayed out with Billings the entire 
day, coming back to announce this dinner for the 
following evening, in so cheerful a mood that she 
had felt more worried than ever. What made him 
so suddenly cheerful? He seemed to think it a huge 
joke when she told him that she had seen Raton 
sneaking out of the corner Post and Telegraph Of¬ 
fice, late yesterday afternoon. What was he doing 
there, she would like to know? 

“Don’t you bother your head, old girl,” Hal had 
said. 

But she was bothering. Here was the dinner. 
Hal had hired a man to wait on the table; had 
ordered flowers, wine, Heaven knew what. Madame 
Raton’s caterpillar smile crawled over the prepara¬ 
tions, spoiling the roses in their vases, the damask 
table-cover, the crystal and silver which Hal had 
somehow wheedled out of the closets. Just showing 
that the Ratons must have had the keys all the time. 
She distrusted their eagerness to please. She dis¬ 
trusted Raton’s smile, which was like butter smeared 
over a very sharp knife. 


BIG GAME 


103 

Well, she looked her best that evening, slowly 
sweeping down the stairs in the black lace tea-gown, 
her hair waved and coiled high in the new fashion 
Mrs. Billings’ coiffeur had taught her. Hal came 
down, brushed and scrubbed, smelling of eau de 
cologne. He did know how to wear evening clothes. 

The bell. Ridiculous to feel so nervous. 

Mrs. Billings’ manner seemed a little strained. 
Wonder what was the matter with her. Billings and 
Hal whispered in a corner. It was a relief when 
dinner was announced. If she had money, how she 
would love to entertain always this way. Sitting 
here in black lace, presiding over polished silver and 
napery, smiling at Billings, smiling at Hal, who sat 
solid and jovial opposite; smiling at Mrs. Billings, 
who made an effort to be gay. 

As they rose from the table to saunter across the 
hall to the salon, Mrs. Billings clasped her arm and 
whispered—“I don’t know what I shall do without 
you.” 

“Without me? Are you going away?” She was 
so startled that she raised her voice. She didn’t 
want Mrs. Billings to go away. 

“It’s a shame. I really think you should be—” 
Mrs. Billings began. 

Billings came up with the genial air of a man 
who has dined well. “Mary dear, the Major wants 
to show you those miniatures he was telling you 
about.” Mrs. Billings hesitated a moment, but 
Hal called to her from the salon. She went. 


104 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Billings glanced down smiling, his eyes half closed. 
Even the pearls in his glossy shirt looked dreamy, 
contented. “You certainly gave us one great little 
dinner,” he said. 

“Are you going away?” She asked it abruptly, 
and let her eyes shine full and green at him under 
the hanging alabaster lamp of the hall. 

He seemed hugely amused. Laughed. “I guess 
not.” 

“Then what did Mary mean-?” 

The hired butler appeared with coffee and 
liqueurs. Hal came out with a box of cigars. Bill¬ 
ings turned briskly as if relieved at the interruption. 

Run upstairs a moment. Her nose felt shiny, 
her nerves were on edge. How quiet her room was I 
Turn on the light. She would like to stay here away 
from them all. Now what had Mary Billings meant? 
Either they were going away or Hal hadn’t told 
her- 

A knock on the door. It was Raton. He sidled 
in, peering about, his mean little face twisted with 
malice. “Is Monsieur here ?” 

You only had to look at him. He’d been drink¬ 
ing. He knew perfectly well that Hal was down¬ 
stairs. “Monsieur is not here.” Her tone dismissed 
him. 

But he nosed further into the room, shifty and 
sly. “The maitre d’hotel wants his money before 
he goes. It’s three hundred francs.” 

Three hundred francs! “It’s impossible,” she said 




BIG GAME 


105 

sharply. Caught herself up. Better be careful; 
avoid a scene. 

He straddled in front of her, his thin little legs 
like hair-pins, his beady eyes adding up. “Three 
hundred francs,” he repeated, and edged closer, his 
voice all oily and smooth— “Vaut mieux etre raison - 
nable } ma petite dame . On peut ton jours s’ar¬ 
ranger ” 

Better give him the money. She didn’t have it. 
“You will have to speak to my husband.” She turned 
away; didn’t want to look at him. 

He whirred behind her like an angry insect. “Ah, 
c’est comme ga! But it shall not pass like this. I 
know what I know-” 

If only the blood didn’t rush so to her cheeks! 
She tried to answer quietly—“You know nothing. I 
shall tell my husband of this, and to-morrow-” 

“To-morrow!” He fairly danced in front of her, 
his voice thin and shrill, rising. “And I who have 
risked losing my place. To-morrow it will be too 
late. I have—” he stopped abruptly. 

The creature had played them some rotten trick. 
Yesterday—the Post Office—oh, she had warned 
Hal! And now perhaps it was too late. She must 
find out. “Monsieur Raton, calm yourself. If we 
owe you any-” 

Off he went again, higher, shriller. “My wife 
was right. You have not even three hundred francs. 
Foulez-vous que je vous dise t Madame—eh hien—” 
He thrust his mean little face close to hers. “You 





106 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

are nothing in spite of your fine trunks and your 
airs. You do not belong here. You are no-” 

“May I come in, Nita?” Mrs. Billings stood 
there in the door, looking at Raton as if he were a 
spot at her feet. It took a tall woman in a gold 
dress and pearls to look that way. 

Raton fidgeted, muttered and sneaked toward the 
door. 

Had she better explain? No—never explain. But 
how much had Mary Billings heard! She must say 
something. “All French servants are alike. They 
think they can rob you. They-” 

“He was drunk, wasn’t he?” Mary Billings moved 
quietly to the dressing-table. 

There you were now. Suppose she had started 
explaining, getting all mixed up when it was so 
simple. Of course he was drunk. But she wished 
her fingers wouldn’t tremble as she opened the 
dressing-table drawer, got out fresh cotton for her 
friend, took off the crystal lid of the powder box. 
Dear me, this would never do. Her face showed 
blotchy under the powder. Little lines set her eyes 
in quotation marks, and her lips sagged at the cor¬ 
ners. Mary Billings, over her shoulder, was re¬ 
flected smooth and young. Not so young either. 
Possibly thirty. But when a woman has nothing to 
* worry her- 

Embarrassing, this silence. Mary Billings broke 
it suddenly. “Nita, do you know that your husband 
has been called to London within a few days on a 





BIG GAME 


107 

very important business matter, and that he expects 
you to spend the winter there with him?” 

She found nothing to say. Nothing. Must have 
looked like an imbecile, staring. 

“Well, I think you should know.” Mrs. Billings 
came nearer, put a hand on her arm. “He asked 
us not to tell you, but I think it’s all wrong the way 
men treat women—not telling them anything. He 
wanted to spare you, he said, until the last moment. 
But he knew yesterday and he came right to Bert 
about it. We were only too glad, of course, to take 
the house off his hands.” 

“Take this house? You’re taking this house?” 
Why, they couldn’t take this house. 

“Yes, we’re sub-letting it for the winter. Nita, 
you don’t mind? If there’s anything I can do I 
wish you’d tell me.” 

“No, there’s nothing.” Her voice was strained. 
It was inconceivable that Hal should do this thing. 
He must have thought it up since yesterday, that 
business in London and all. 

“I’m glad it’s all right.” But Mrs. Billings, as 
she moved toward the door, didn’t sound as if it were 
all right. 

Call her back. No use. What could you tell her? 
Better let her and Billings get away and then have 
it out with Hal. Oh, yes, she would have it out 
with Hal. 

They had reached the head of the stairs. What 
was Raton doing there in the hall? The doors of 


io8 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


the salon were closed. Wasn’t that a taxi outside? 
Yes, it stopped, and Raton slid forward toward the 
vestibule. 

“Wait a moment, Mary, please.” They were still 
on the top steps. Mary Billings turned. 

A key scraped in the front door. She could see 
the hall, the vestibule. The front door opened. 

Then Mary Billings, light on her feet, flew down. 
“Mr. Putnam! Wherever did you-?” 

Well, now they were in for it. Raton had tele¬ 
graphed, of course. What could she do? Go up¬ 
stairs—hide—go downstairs ? Her knees would give 
way if she moved. She must get to Hal. Must warn 
Hal. Creep a step down. She heard Putnam’s voice, 
unfamiliar—“Mary Billings! Where on earth?—I 
thought-” 

Slip down the last steps. If only they didn’t see 
her! Putnam stood slender and blond in his dark 
travelling suit. That little beast of a Raton hover¬ 
ing in the background, touched his arm. He looked 
up, recognised her. 

The salon door opened noisily. Hal blew full tilt 
into the hall, a large cigar in his mouth. 

There was nothing she could do now. Nothing. 

You really had to admire Hal. For a second he 
stood clamped to the floor. Then he braced himself 
with an upward heave of his shoulders and bore 
down, a bit too red and hearty. “By Jove, if it isn’t 
Putnam! Well, well, old chap, this is a surprise. 
Sent you a telegram yesterday. Just come in here a 




BIG GAME 


109 


moment, and I’ll explain.” He took the blond young 
man by the elbow and tried to tow him into the 
dining room. 

You could see that Putnam didn’t know quite what 
to do. And then Billings appeared. Hurried for¬ 
ward, exclaiming; almost shook Putnam’s hand off. 
If Hal would only keep quiet! Any moment now 
Putnam might say something that would bring it 
all out, or Billings might- 

But Hal had to go on talking about telegrams and 
letters. He talked louder than anyone until finally 
Putnam moved toward the dining room with Hal 
prancing after him, inviting him to have a drink 
in his own house. Raton wanted to follow. Didn’t 
dare. 

‘‘Excuse us a moment, Bert,” Putnam said. 

She didn’t like the sudden businesslike clip to his 
voice. He wasn’t going to let Hal off. Something 
must be done at once. Mary Billings. She could 
help. She was the only one. 

“Mary, can I speak to you alone for a moment?” 

It really was splendid, the way she took her hus¬ 
band by the arm and led him into the salon. “Bert 
dear, wait for us, will you?” 

“But what the devil!—what’s going on?” Not 
easy to handle, Billings. 

The door closed on him, and Mary came back. 
Tell her the truth, or nearly the truth. 

“Putnam didn’t know we were here, Mary. Hal 
meant to write him. He didn’t mean when he sub-let 



no 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


the house to you—Putnam wanted to rent his house, 
you see. And Hal—I never knew until to-night that 
he—I thought we could pay.” 

“Let me understand. Putnam didn’t know you 
were in his house?” 

“No, he didn’t. Hal thought your husband would 
give him a job if we had a decent background. And 
then we could have paid. But now he—” The words 
were twisted and bitter. It wasn’t so easy to explain. 
Through the dining-room door Hal’s voice grew 
louder and louder, explaining. 

“You poor dear!” Mary Billings’ arms went 
around her. “I thought there was something wrong 
upstairs. But I couldn’t understand-” 

She didn’t want to be pitied. Mustn’t cry. “Hal 
really doesn’t mean to—” Everything she said made 
it worse. 

Mary Billings spoke quickly. “I’m afraid Bert 
will be very angry. I’ll try and manage him and 
Mr. Putnam. Go up and pack what you can. I’ll 
send your husband to you. I’m afraid you’ll have 
to get him out quietly. Good-bye, Nita. I’m sorry.” 

She had lost her friend. Women like Mrs. Billings 
might pity, but they never could understand. Well, 
it couldn’t be helped. Hurry up the stairs. 

“Nita,” Mary Billings called from below. “Bert 
lent your husband a little something yesterday. Keep 
it from me.” 

Oh dear, Hal had borrowed again. No time to 
think of it now. Where was the valise? In the 



BIG GAME 


ill 


closet. Drag it out; pack what she could. Why 
didn’t Hal come? Mary Billings’ eyes—how sorry 
they had looked! And then she had turned away. 

A cautious noise outside. Hal stepped into the 
room. 

“Why did you mix the Billings woman up in 
this ?” he said testily. “I could have fixed everything 
all right.” 

He couldn’t have fixed anything. He had got the 
worst of it, she could see. The little veins were 
all swollen in his face. He paced the room cursing 
Putnam, cursing Raton. 

Couldn’t get much in the valise. Her suit, Hal’s 
suit, handkerchiefs, a shirt. She couldn’t find any¬ 
thing. She ran to and fro, fumbling in closets and 
drawers. 

“Nita, old girl, I’m damn sorry. It’s rotten for 
you.” Hal put his big hands on her shoulders. She 
saw his face, flushed, his poor old sorry face. “I 
swear I meant to-” 

Yes, he always meant to. There were tears in her 
eyes. One more look at the room, at the chaise 
longue, the little rosewood desk, the soft lace-covered 
bed. Never to sleep there any more-! 

“Nita, I’m sorry. If that damn little Raton 
hadn’t-” 

“Hurry, Hal.” 

The Brassington-Welshes tiptoeing down the 
stairs, Hal carrying a shiny big valise. From the 
salon came voices, Mary Billings talking in a crisp 





112 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


voice like a machine ticking. “You shall not, Bert. 
Mr. Putnam, you must listen to me. I promised 
her-” 

The dining-room door opened. Raton pattered 
forward, Madame Raton behind. 

Hal started back. “I’ll wring his neck for him.” 

She got him by his coat, pulled him along. “Hal, 
for my sake!” 

A noise sounded in the salon as of someone getting 
up, pushing a chair. The front door at last. She 
opened it. It shut heavily behind them. 

It was cold. Hal stalked ahead, muttering, a 
shoulder sagging under the weight of the valise. 
She trotted along, trying to keep up the pace. The 
lights in the long, slim windows were like warm fires 
she was leaving. She looked back once. 

Hal stopped to hail a taxi. Helped her in. 
“Grand Hotel,” he said to the chauffeur. 

“Hal, we can’t afford-” 

In the dusk of the cab she felt him settle beside 
her. He fumbled in his pocket and suddenly he 
began to chuckle. “Feel that.” 

It was his wallet bulging with bills. “Hal, 
what-?” 

He took it away from her. “Ten thousand francs, 
old dear. Not bad—what?” Under the slanting 
rays of a street lamp, she saw him expanded, smiling. 
“You can call it my commission,” he said. “Billings 
gave it to me yesterday. Meant to tell you. It’s a 
month’s rent, and I’ve earned it.” 





BIG GAME 


^3 

That was what Mary Billings had meant by a 
“little loan.” Ten thousand francs! The price of a 
friend. Funny— wasn’t it funny, stealing out in the 
night with ten thousand? She threw back her head 
and laughed. The laughter had little hooks on it. 
The little hooks caught in her throat, tore- 

“Nita!” Hal gripped her arm. 

But she had to go on laughing. Oh, dear—oh, 
dear—how funny! The beautiful black trunks left 
behind, and her sequin gown, and—yes, she had for¬ 
gotten the toothbrushes. The Ratons’ faces. Ten 
thousand francs for dressing Mary Billings up in a 
red velvet gown. 

“Nita!” 

It hurt to laugh like this. Lights flowed together, 
broke into loose dancing shapes. The taxi drew 
up in front of the hotel. 

And her laughter left her. 



CHAPTER IV 

THE LOST VERONA 
I 

T HEY couldn’t stay on in Paris after that. Not 
that he minded in the least, Hal said, meeting 
Billings in any of the bars where so often 
they had had their jolly little times together. Billings 
ought to be grateful to him. Found him an old 
friend and a house in one throw. Oh, no, he wasn’t 
afraid of Billings, or of Mr. Putnam for that matter. 

But he felt he needed a rest and a change. Eng¬ 
land was the place. He wanted his England. 

Well, he was having his England. Was it only a 
week ago that, breathing the foggy air of London, 
he declared he had rested long enough? He had 
certainly not rested in the manner of spending 
money. Ten thousand francs converted into pounds 
wasn’t so much. Not when you went shopping and 
bought new luggage, new clothes. 

She waited for him now in a small Italian res¬ 
taurant in Soho. It was a nice little restaurant with 
its cheery background of English chintz, and it gave 
out inviting odors of spaghetti, sausage, mandarins. 
She was hungry. 


THE LOST VERONA 


115 

She was also cynically reflecting that the day Hal 
had tired of his “rest” had been the day on which 
he met the slippery Greek with his greasy Latin 
manuscript. And the very next morning he had read 
in the Daily Mail of the arrival of Doctor Marshall, 
the distinguished American scholar, over here to 
receive from Oxford an LL.D. A manuscript and 
a Professor, said Hal, might add up a few pounds. 
It was a simple problem in arithmetic for a man of 
imagination. 

She sat at a table next to a big mirror. Looking 
quite well to-day in her black velvet. But tired of 
waiting. Tired of London. Sick of red busses, 
leather shops, soft coal, and tall men in yellow 
gloves. 

Whenever the dark, swift waiter glanced toward 
the empty chair opposite her, she remembered 
Italian ways, and her lips curled freshly. She knew 
how to keep a table at the crowded hour. 

Hal would turn up presently, she rather suspected, 
in a very different mood from the sprightly one 
with which he had set forth from the Carlton that 
morning—top hat and patent leathers shiny, his new 
morning coat flowered with a white carnation. Very 
English, very sure of himself. 

Trust him, he had said. The Professor was most 
awfully keen to get that manuscript for his Uni¬ 
versity. Good joke on the old bird—what?—being 
taken in by a few photographed pages, and the 
prodigious legend that the original lay mouldering 


n6 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

in a vault of a mosque in Constantinople. See how 
it worked ? Have to smuggle the thing out by brib¬ 
ing a mythical Turkish official. Hal, of course, was 
to manage this delicate and expensive operation. 

Well, however incredibly guileless Doctor Mar¬ 
shall might be, it hadn’t worked yet. And unless 
some money appeared from somewhere soon, Major 
and Mrs. Brassington-Welsh would have to leave 
the Carlton Hotel in a hurry. 

She lit another cigarette—her third. Stupid, 
these noisy, pseudo-picturesque places—bits of 
foreign backyards transplanted to cater to nostalgia, 
curiosity and limited purses. She knew them too 
well: their jargon, their alien smells, their bleached 
local colour. 

A slow sensation of someone staring. She glanced 
in the mirror against which her table stood. A 
waiter, lounging near, blocked her view. On either 
side of him, heads and shoulders were reflected in 
the gestures of eating—a woman’s arm heavily 
bangled, a hand closed around a wine glass, a fat 
man, sucking in long dangling strands of spaghetti. 
In the foreground, her own face, unfamiliar, close— 
every little line and pore—green eyes enquiring urn 
der light brows. The powder was too thick around 
her nostrils. Rub it off with a finger tip. Her little 
finger evened the red on her lips. Yes, decidedly 
becoming, this black velvet- 

The waiter moved on. And again she felt eyes 
fixed upon her. Wasn’t it?—yes, it was the Greek, 



THE LOST VERONA 


117 


Antonides, over there by the door talking to the 
Padrone. He saw that she saw him. His teeth 
flashed, and he came toward her, dark and shiny, 
carrying a flat parcel. 

Unpleasant creature! Better be polite to him. 
She tilted her head; smiled. “Well, Mr. Antonides, 
what are you doing here?” Not so polite as all that. 

“I saw your husband this morning, Mrs. Brassing- 
ton-Welsh. He told me to bring him this.” And 
softly he laid the parcel on the table. 

She hated men who wore strange rings on tiny 
white hands. “What is it?” 

The Greek smiled. “A manuscript.” His round 
silky eyes watched her intently. “Your husband is 
getting it cheap—only forty pounds.” 

Forty pounds—over two hundred dollars! So Hal 
had gone and bought the thing! “I’m sure I don’t 
know what he can do with it,” she said, showing 
her annoyance. 

Most objectionable, the way he shrugged his 
shoulders, leaning nearer to murmur—“Sell it, per¬ 
haps for a larger price. Isn’t that possible, Mrs. 
Brassington-Welsh? You have many rich friends.” 

“We have no friends who would care for—shall 
I say an old manuscript?” She looked at him de¬ 
liberately. 

A waiter jostled by. But he only pressed closer 
to her table, spreading his hands fan-wise. “It can 
have any age you wish,” he insinuated. 

She touched the parcel beside her plate. “If you 


118 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

care to leave this, Mr. Antonides, until my husband 
comes-” 

He took her hint. “I shall be back later then. 
Major Brassington-Welsh has already paid me 
twenty pounds. He promised me the other 
twenty-” 

“You can count on it,” she promised coldly. Well, 
that settled the question of paying any hotel bill 
this week. 

He bowed and his teeth showed again. 

“Good-bye.” Her smile was a habit not easily 
broken. 

But he turned back as the people at the next table 
rose noisily to leave. “I have known your husband 
for a very long time,” he murmured. “It is most 
interesting to me that he should be buying a Latin 
manuscript. I shall be happy to hear what he in¬ 
tends doing with it. A u revoir, chere Madame” 

Beastly man! Wasn’t that like Hal to spend all 
that money! She opened the parcel. Well, if that 
was what he was paying forty pounds for, and ex¬ 
pected to pass off on a poor old Professor as a 
valuable—what was the name of that Latin poet?— 
Cat—something—Catullus. 

You only had to look at it. That wormy wooden 
binding, for instance, with new wood showing 
through in spots, where it had been less successfully 
smudged and greased over. You could make those 
worm holes with bird shot. The clasps broken; 
the edges chewed as if by mice; and the yellowed 




THE LOST VERONA 


119 

parchment torn in places. Too obvious—too obvi¬ 
ous! Beautifully done, though, all those blackish 
angular ciphers, and the cramped tight little notes 
in the margin. The red capitals were quite orna¬ 
mental standing off by themselves in Indian file. 
Wonder what it said. You could see it was poetry 
the way the lines ran. But as to being worth forty 
pounds! 

She looked up just in time. Hal’s face seemed to 
balloon red and animated from the doorway, above 
the heads of drifting groups. One glance was 
enough. Something extraordinary had happened. 
Who was that behind him, that little figure drowned 
in a long overcoat? Good Heavens, Doctor Mar¬ 
shall! Quick, paper and string—whisk the manu¬ 
script back in its wrappings. Slide it down on the 
floor. 

Hal saw her and came prancing across the room. 
The Professor followed. 

“Hello—hello, Nita. Sorry to be late. I waited 
with the Professor for a cable. Then we had to go 
to the Bank.” Hal’s voice, round and hearty. “Sit 
down, sir—sit down. Waiter, another chair.” 

A cable! The Bank! Hal wagged his head at 
her. 

“I’m dying of curiosity.” She struck a girlish 
note, smiling up at Doctor Marshall, who stood 
blinking through his strong glasses. 

“An eventful day—a very eventful day.” His 
voice was like a vague little breeze stirring the 


120 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


droopy fringe of his unexpectedly black moustache. 
All the rest of him was bald and white. 

“Sit down, sir,” Hal jovially repeated. 

Major Brassington-Welsh in his element, order¬ 
ing an expensive lunch. Her own talent lay in the 
familiar direction of entertaining a guest. What did 
one talk about to Professors? 

Hal, sitting opposite her, settled that question 
He had taken on an atmosphere of mystery through 
which he shone like a red sun through a London 
fog. Leaning forward, he dropped his voice to what 
he considered a whisper. “Nita, we’ve found the 
lost Verona!” 

Clever boy! That thing she was hiding between 
her chair and the wall? So that was what he meant 
to call it! Well, anything he found, someone would 
have to pay for. She turned to sparkle at the 
Professor. 

“I should hardly care to make such a statement, 
Major,” he corrected. “Mind you, Pm convinced 
that we have made a great discovery.” For an in¬ 
stant his eyes seemed to burn through his glasses. 

Hal nodded. He was in such a fluster of excite¬ 
ment that he couldn’t keep his hands still. He 
drummed little tunes on the table. 

“A discovery,” Marshall continued, carefully 
picking his words, “that will startle the world of 
thought. Aside from the evidence of the photo¬ 
graphs, the whereabouts of this manuscript leads to 
the most intriguing speculation. Think of it, Mrs. 


THE LOST VERONA 


121 


Brassington-Welsh, think of it! After all these cen¬ 
turies, we find extant in Constantinople a Catul¬ 
lus-” 

She thought of it. “I feel so ignorant, Profes¬ 
sor.” Her smile flashed out, appealingly. “Tell me 
what is the lost Verona?” Wouldn’t do Hal any 
harm to hear. 

The Professor dabbed at anchovy and Russian 
salad which the waiter was passing, while Hal 
poured Chianti, spilling it. 

She sprinkled salt on the spotted tablecloth, lis¬ 
tening with a forward movement of chin and 
shoulders. How fascinating! So in the tenth cen¬ 
tury there was a manuscript of Catullus, the earliest 
on record, which had mysteriously disappeared from 
Verona. It would take Hal to find a thing like that. 

Marshall, wiping his glasses, warmed to Kis sub¬ 
ject. “All the Catullus manuscripts we have to-day 
are descended from this lost Verona. You see, Mrs. 
Brassington-Welsh, printing was only invented in the 
fifteenth century. Before that, books had to be 
copied by hand. The monks who usually did this 
work were often illiterate and constantly made mis¬ 
takes. I’m not boring you?” 

Oh, no—no, indeed, he wasn’t boring her. She 
thought of the Bank. 

“So that from copy to copy the readings became 
almost unintelligible. It is my life’s ambition, I 
may tell you, to re-establish out of all this confusion 
what Catullus really wrote. I can show you an 



122 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


example of how even a letter alters the reading—” 
He dove in a cavernous pocket for a pencil. 

“Do try these finocchi, Doctor. They’re de¬ 
licious.” If she didn’t stop him, he would go on 
forever. 

He slid the pencil back in his pocket. “Thank 
you, no. Now, it has always been my theory,” he 
continued, blowing through his moustache, “that at 
the fall of Constantinople the Turks cast as heathen 
literature a quantity of valuable uncatalogued man¬ 
uscripts in the vaults of certain mosques. I wrote 
an article once on that subject which I shall be glad 
to send you. It seems nothing less than a miracle 
that your husband-” 

Hal stroked the dark right wing of his moustache. 
“Pure luck, my dear Doctor,” he modestly remarked. 
“I’d done the fellow a good turn. Remember our 
last visit to Constantinople, Nita?” 

He needn’t drag her in. “So long ago,” she mur¬ 
mured. 

Marshall turned to Hal. “Wasn’t it last sum¬ 
mer?” 

“Best little woman in the world, my wife, but she 
has no idea of time.” Hal slanted at her down his 
nose and hurried on. “The fellow couldn’t do 
enough for us while we were there. I’d have bought 
the manuscript then if I could have afforded it. He 
insisted on my taking the photographs. Writes me 
now and then. Got a letter from him the other 



THE LOST VERONA 


12 3 

day. He’s ready to take big risks. In his official 
position-” 

U I should think,” the Professor interrupted -with 
a dry note of humour, “that a Turkish gentleman 
so well aware of values would be willing to take a 
few risks for six thousand dollars.” 

Six thousand dollars! Her fork clicked against 
her plate. He had said six thousand dollars! She 
saw his bulging brow, his glasses shiny pools in 
which his eyes like little blue fish seemed to be 
swimming around and around. 

“Six thousand dollars!” She heard her own voice 
struggling uphill. And she caught Hal’s triumphant 
eye, the lid flickering in a wink. 

“About fourteen hundred pounds,” he chuckled. 
“Just shows what your word stands for there, Pro¬ 
fessor. Nita doesn’t know. Tell her.” 

She stared at the bald white head, the droopy 
moustache that fluttered as he talked. She must be 
dreaming. He had—what?—cabled to an old grad¬ 
uate of his University, Herman Slade, for the money 
which had been promptly cabled back that morning. 
Hal was to send a special messenger with an advance 
payment of three thousand to Constantinople. The 
messenger was to bring back the manuscript on 
receipt of which Hal was to send the remaining 
three thousand to his mythical friend whose identity 
must be kept in the dark. 

How Hal had ever managed! Why, he must have 
three thousand now! And the manuscript— She slid 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


124 

her hand between the wall and her chair. Great 
Heavens, she had forgotten Antonides who was com¬ 
ing back here! In the excitement, Hal must have 
forgotten him, too. If he got wind of Marshall- 

Their distinguished guest absently cutting slippery 
strands of spaghetti with his fork, seemed to have 
drifted into a scholar’s paradise while Hal held 
forth. Great thing for the States! They’d have 
every blinking old—every illustrious man of learn¬ 
ing in the world, trotting over there to look at that 
manuscript. A country could be proud of men like 
this Herman Slade who- 

She fumbled in her bag. Tore out a leaf of her 
notebook. 

“Mr. Slade has known me for a great many 
years,” Marshall was saying a trifle complacently. 
“It was I, in fact, who persuaded him to donate 
our fine Library building. He often consults me 
about his remarkable collection.” 

Scribble a warning under cover of her napkin. 
Make Hal look at her. He was conveying a neat 
bundle of spaghetti to his mouth. She kicked his 
foot. 

“What the devil?” 

The Professor, who lacked Italian training, had 
become engrossed in the bewildering contents of his 
plate. She raised her pencil above the table edge, 
wig-wagged it. An old signal. Hal understood. 

Keep Marshall talking. She had only to ques- 




THE LOST VERONA 


125 

tion on a note of admiration—“You can really tell 
about a manuscript from photographs?” 

He was happily launched. “Yes, indeed. We are 
forced to depend upon them, as the originals are 
scattered all over the world. In fact, sometimes I 
prefer them—for instance to detect the corrections 
of a later hand by the colour values of inks, or 
erasures by the almost imperceptible shadows of 
roughened surfaces. In my last book on Catullus,” 
he proceeded chattily—“and by the way, I must send 
you a copy, Major—I gathered a large part of my 
data from photographs. Of course, there are al¬ 
ways different opinions. I expect-” 

Her smile held him as she slipped the small piece 
of paper under the bread basket. Hal reached out 
for a piece of bread. It was neatly done. 

From under the large velvet brim of her hat, she 
shone upon the Professor, light brows lifted, lips 
parted. Questioning—listening. He expected then 
that this manuscript would raise a storm of con¬ 
troversy? A life work to defend it? How splendid 
of him! 

Cotelettes a la Milanaise and salad. She coaxed 
sweetly, “You haven’t eaten a thing, Professor.” 

How could he eat when he talked so much! 

Hal pretended to drop his napkin. Dove under 
the table. He had read her note and wanted to see 
what she had done with his precious manuscript. He 
emerged apoplectic. Twisted himself in a position 
where he could watch the door. 



126 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“When your husband asked for my opinion on 
the photographs, I confess I was skeptical.” Doctor 
Marshall’s wispy voice went on and on. “You see, 
of the hundred odd Catullus manuscripts in exis¬ 
tence, there are only four or five of major impor¬ 
tance. You see—” and he beamed upon Hal, “I 
believe them to be all copies of our manuscript.” 

Sort of an Adam among manuscripts, this lost 
Verona. She glanced toward the door. 

“The Bodleian Library would never forgive me, 
Major,” Marshall readjusted his glasses, “if they 
knew that you had contemplated, as an old Oxford 
man, presenting them with such a gift. Of course, 
they already own one of the finest copies—the one 
we call 0. The Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris has 
G; the Vatican Library R; and Saint Marks in 
Venice-” 

Hal was growing restless. “Only too glad to 
oblige you, Doctor.” 

Fruit and cheese at last. She picked out a man¬ 
darin. Antonides wouldn’t turn up at this hour. 

The Professor fidgeted as if he had something on 
his mind. “You expect to get your messenger off 
this afternoon? You have someone in view, of 
course?” 

“Oh, yes—yes, indeed,” Hal hastily assured him. 

One of those pauses that mean trouble. Then— 
“Would you have any objection to my interviewing 
him?” came from Marshall. “I am naturally 


anxious- 




THE LOST VERONA 


127 

He wasn’t the only one. What could Hal say? 
She dared not look at him. 

“Very natural, indeed, my dear sir.” The genial 
tone of a Doctor addressing a nervous patient. 
“Certainly, you can see him if you wish. But-” 

He must have some plan. From the corner of her 
eye she saw him—a florid gentleman of military 
bearing, leaning impressively forward. “But I think 
it would be a mistake. Have a cigar, Doctor.” He 
offered his new case with the silver crest. There 
was something about an expensive cigar- 

“Tell you why.” Hal, very cool, paused to strike 
a match. “I give my man his orders and the sealed 
envelope we fixed up at the Bank. He brings me back 
a sealed package. All there is to it. But you, com¬ 
ing in on it, rouse his curiosity. Understand? He’d 
be likely to talk when he gets there. And if my 
friend—charming fellow, but well—you can’t trust 
a Turk.” Hal moved his cigar from one side of his 
mouth to the other. “If he hears that an American 
is at the other end of this—this little transaction, 
I’m afraid he’ll hold us up for more. However, suit 
yourself, Professor—suit yourself.” And Hal, as 
if he didn’t care one way or another, flecked an ash 
on to the floor. 

“Dear me, I hadn’t thought of that.” Marshall 
looked worried. “I’m rather inexperienced in such 
matters. Perhaps you’re right, Major.” 

“Pos-i-tively right.” Hal grew rather boisterous. 
“You’ve got my receipt. You leave it to me. You 




128 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


shall have your manuscript in ten—say twelve days. 
Count five to get there. He goes by Paris, Milan, 
Venice, Trieste, Belgrade, Sofia— Looked it all 
up. Two days for the business. Five to get back.” 

The Professor sighed. “It’s a long time to wait. 
The responsibility- 

With a little start, she turned her head. Antonides 
stood in the doorway, staring at their table. How 
long had he been there? 

“Hal!” She spoke softly. 

He gave one look. Jumped up. “Excuse me a 
moment.” Hands in his pockets, he swaggered 
across the floor. 

Watch them in the mirror. Couldn’t tell a thing 
from Antonides’ face. Hal straddled in front of 
him, talking. 

“A friend of your husband’s?” Of course 
Marshall could see, too, in the mirror. 

“I don’t know.” Change the subject. “How do 
you like London, Doctor?” 

He did sound worried. “I shall be glad to get 
home. I dread these twelve days. I had meant to 
sa il—of course, your husband may be right. I-” 

“Trust Hal,” she said quickly, lighting another 
cigarette. And again she glanced toward the door. 
Once he had his forty pounds, Antonides couldn’t 
do anything. Couldn’t he? She sipped her coffee. 
Must keep up the conversation. Those smooth dark 
eyes were watching Marshall. 




THE LOST VERONA 


129 

“You speak Greek and Latin, don’t you?” The 
girlish note was most successful. 

Those blue eyes could twinkle. “Not fluently. 
You see, we don’t get much practice.” 

She glanced once more in the mirror. Hal was 
handing over something. Well, with three thousand 
in his pocket, he could afford a hundred. Thank 
goodness, at last Antonides was going. 

Hal marched back, flushed and smiling. “Who 
d’you think that was, Professor?” 

Too sure of himself. She didn’t like that roguish 
gleam in his eye. 

“Our messenger!” he brought out triumphantly. 
“Didn’t tell you, but I telephoned him while you 
were at the Bank. He’ll be in Paris to-night.” 

Oh, why did he have to go and do things like 
that! There he sat, delighted with himself. Great 
idea, using Antonides- 

Marshall fluttered with excitement. So that was 
the man! Glad to have seen him. Next to talking 
to him, that had been the most reassuring— No time 
wasted then- 

No time wasted, certainly, in complicating the 
situation. The Greek in London, Marshall in Lon¬ 
don—always the chance of their meeting! 

Hal was paying the bill. The waiter smiled, the 
Padrone smiled, as well they might. 

She reached down, picked up the parcel at which 
Hal glared as if it held dynamite. Tease him a bit. 
“Would you like to carry my bundle like a good 




130 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


husband?” And she held it right under the Pro¬ 
fessor’s nose. 

“Give it to me.” Hal grabbed for it. 

She laughed. “I’ll carry it, myself, thank you.” 
She tucked it under her arm. Trotted toward the 
door. 

Marshall never even glanced at it as he took his 
leave in the chilly grey street. 

From the taxi window she saw him, an odd little 
figure in his long coat and wide-brimmed, squarish 
derby, trudging through the mist, crossing Shaftes¬ 
bury Avenue. A red bus almost knocked him down. 

“Hal, what did Antonides say?” 

“Not much.” Hal was busy drawing forth a 
sealed envelope. Broke the seal. “Wanted to know 
who the old bird was.” Bills in his hand—bills 
that were crisp and new. “How’s that for a day’s 
work? Seven hundred pounds!” He thrust them 
towards her, gleeful as a boy. 

“Did you tell him who it was?” 

“Not much.” Hal chuckled. “Said he was a 
friend of your family. Cheero, Nita, why the glum 
face?” He swept the bills into his wallet; thumped 
her on the knee. 

You couldn’t be angry with him for long. She 
glanced out of the window. Bond Street. Crowds 
moving heavy and dark in the, grey. Tea shops, 
tobacco shops—shop windows flattened in the mist, 
their wares but dimly seen as the taxi sped along. 
Things to buy. Money to pay with. 


THE LOST VERONA 131 

“What on earth possessed you to tell Marshall 
that Antonides was your messenger?” 

“Well, perhaps I did over-do it a bit,” Hal ad¬ 
mitted. “Thought the old gentleman needed some¬ 
thing of the kind. We can always skip if anything 
goes wrong. Seven hundred pounds isn’t so bad l” 

Yes, skipping was their usual pace. 

“Now Nita, you’re not going to-” 

No, she wasn’t going to worry. After all, could 
anything be funnier than a famous scholar vouching 
for a manuscript that Hal had bought for forty 
pounds from a disreputable Greek? A joke on all 
those stuffy old fogies who thought themselves so- 
wise! 

She brightened to laughter. Not for long. 

“Oh, Hal, if it ever gets out!” 

2 

It did get out. 

“The Devil!” Hal cried one morning, staring at 
his Daily Mail . “There it is!” 

There it was, or a reporter’s garbled version of 
it—a beautiful story of how Herman Slade, well- 
known Patron of Letters, was paying a fabulous 
price for a mysterious old manuscript which Pro¬ 
fessor Marshall, the distinguished Latinist now in 
London, had unearthed in Constantinople. Mr. 
Slade refused to say where the manuscript was at 
present. No mention, as yet, of Major Brassington- 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


* 3 2 

Welsh. But Marshall’s photograph was on the back 
page. The old idiot must have written Slade when 
first he saw the photographs. And Slade, later re¬ 
ceiving the cable, had talked. 

According to Hal’s schedule, only seven days more 
to go before the wretched manuscript could be de¬ 
livered to Marshall and the final three thousand 
dollars handed over. Now this—publicity! The 
one thing-! 

Suddenly, Hal began to laugh. Sprawling back 
in the one comfortable chair, his beige dressing gown 
folded around him, his red-slippered feet in the air, 
he opened his mouth, closed his eyes, heaving and 
wallowing in merriment. The breakfast tray on the 
table beside him rattled. His paper slid to the 
floor. Against the light background of that polite 
bedroom, he showed up violently coloured. 

She stood staring down at him. Glad he thought 
it so funny. Her own sense of humour was not in 
working order. At this hour of the morning she 
always felt puffy of eye, droopy of lip, and like 
turning her back on windows. She clutched her 
kimono with one hand; with the other, she shook 
him. 

“Ho—ho,” he roared on a subsiding wave. “Can 
you see the old duffer’s face when he reads this?” 

No, but she could see them skipping, and she told 
him so. “Limelight isn’t becoming to you, Hal.” 

He sat up, his hair rumpled. Whistled. He 



THE LOST VERONA 


133 

hadn’t thought of that. “Oh, I say, old girl, we 
can’t get out now.” 

That was precisely what they were going to do 
and quickly. Why take risks when they had, already, 
seven hundred pounds! “D’ you want a swarm of 
reporters enquiring into your private affairs?” She 
let this sink in while she hunted for the key of the 
trunk. 

He rose, tying the cord of his dressing gown. He 
was growing fat. “Marshall won’t talk.” But he 
didn’t sound convinced. He prowled to the window 
where he stood staring at the wintry, lemonish light 
of another London day. “Suppose I telephone and 
explain?” 

“The less explaining you do, the better.” She 
was in the closet, unhooking hangers. These ward¬ 
robe trunks were convenient. After all, three thou¬ 
sand dollars—or what Hal hadn’t spent of it, would 
carry them quite a way. 

He’d have to leave behind all those seedy old 
books he had bought—books on Catullus, a fat blue 
volume of Marshall’s, autographed, a Latin dic¬ 
tionary—a pompous row of them on the mantle- 
piece. 

“You’d better dress and go get tickets for some¬ 
where.” She may have sounded a little tired. It 
was hard luck! 

“Damn it all!” he growled, rubbing the blue 
unshaven part of his chin. But obediently he strode 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


134 

into the bathroom from which, presently, came the 
intimate racket of splashing and swearing. 

She sighed. They were comfortable here. Well, 
it might be worse. Nice—Monte Carlo— She lit 
a cigarette, trotting back and forth. She took up 
the blue evening dress Hal had insisted on buying 
her. She had never liked it. 

“I say, Nita, where shall we go?” Hal, in his 
shirt sleeves, suspenders dangling, peered from the 
bathroom door, a razor brandished in mid-air. His 
face was a soapy mask from out which gleamed a 
bloodshot eye. 

“Oh, anywhere.” She brushed back strands of 
hair. She needed another wave. 

The old weary sense that there was no other way 
out; packing—travelling—boats, trains—new fields 
—fields that had grown again over the paths they 
had trodden. 

Pull out the bureau drawers. There now, cigar¬ 
ette ashes over everything. Hal’s passion for hand¬ 
kerchiefs and neckties was only equalled by the 
empty whiskey bottles of which he left a trail 
wherever they went. 

“You’ve made a holy mess of the place.” Hal 
again, peevish, poor dear, fumbling among piles 
of stuff on the bed. 

“Leave those alone.” With his great, big clumsy 
hands, he was upsetting everything. 

“Hang it all, Nita, I want a necktie.” 

“Well, there’s one on the chair.” 


THE LOST VERONA 


135 

Drag out the black valise. She knelt before it. 
What a jumble! Two empty bottles of Haig and 
Haig. Simply have to leave them in the closet. One 
bottle half full; orange-wood sticks; a pencil, point 
broken; an unwrapped piece of soap; that shoehorn 
she had been looking for everywhere; some loose 
French francs jingling about. Under rumpled pack¬ 
ing paper, the manuscript. Hal must have spilt some 
whiskey on it. She held it, scrambling to her feet. 
Of all smudged, stained, forlorn bits of rubbish-! 

Hal, his face askew, his elbows crooked as he 
squeezed into one of his tight collars, turned to 
glare at it. “What are you going to do with the 
thing?” 

“Send it to your Professor.” Had to give him 
something for his three thousand! Then laughter 
came up in her as it had come to Hal. 

“Oh, dear—oh, dear!” she gasped. Hal re¬ 
garded her sourly. 

The telephone bell joined in her last peal, cutting 
it short. Should they answer? 

“Must be Marshall.” Before she could stop him, 
Hal took up the receiver. She: stood at his shoulder, 
strained, listening. 

“Who?—Mr.—Who?—Antonides waiting down¬ 
stairs? Be down in a moment.” 

Antonides! What did he want! “Oh, Hal, 
why do you see him?” 

“Have to,” he answered shortly, jerking into his 
coat. “He said he’d wait if I wasn’t ready.” Pre- 



136 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

tended to hunt for a handkerchief. Too busy to 
look at her. 

She followed him to the door. “Hal, be careful 
what you say. I don’t trust that man.” 

He stood dapper in his blue suit. How grey his 
hair had turned along the edges! “Don’t you worry, 
old dear.” He bent to kiss her, and was gone. 

Empty, empty room with its elegance muddled by 
human things—bedclothes tossed, crumbs and ashes 
on the breakfast tray, trunk and valise yawning. 
Things—things on the little desk, on the bureau, on 
chairs; the reek of cigarettes; water dripping in the 
bathroom, and towels flung about. 

She should have gone down with Hal. 

There was still time. She thrust the manuscript 
back into the bag. Finish packing later. She put 
on energy with her stockings and powder; courage 
with the red wings that helped her lips to smile. 
Now her black gabardine with the leather trimmings, 
the leather-edged box coat. Better wear a hat and 
veil. 

Trouble. She knew it as she hastened across the 
spacious lounge to where Hal and his visitor were 
sitting in a corner among palms and wicker furniture. 
At this hour the place was almost deserted. She 
passed an old man reading a paper; an American 
consulting a Baedeker; a bored couple sitting bolt 
upright, waiting for someone. 

The two men rose, Antonides suave, Hal savage. 
The veins about his temples swollen purplish and 


THE LOST VERONA 


137 

throbbing. “I say, Nita!” He kept his voice down, 
trying for control. “Here’s a rum joke on us.” A 
joke he didn’t relish from his manner. “Our friend 
has an idea that I’ve made a fortune out of his 
damned manuscript. Perfect rot, of course.” 

She had feared something like this. She sat down 
facing the Greek. “You’ve read that absurd story 
in the Daily Mail?” Under her veil, her lips curled 
in obedient amusement. 

Antonides waved his tiny hand with the horrid 
scarab ring. “It is the truth—is it not?” He spoke 
softly. 

Better not deny too much. She met those smooth 
dark eyes with the deepening green of her own. 
“A very exaggerated story, Mr. Antonides. But 
even suppose—” She leaned forward. “Suppose 
my husband did sell the manuscript for a little more 
than he paid for it. You got your price, didn’t you?” 

“My price— then.” Smiling, he drew out a gold 
cigarette case. His small hand, soft as a woman’s, 
held it out to her. Brown cigarettes, gold tipped. 

Rather take poison. 

Hal scowled, his fist heavy on the table. “You 
have no business-” 

The Greek turned slowly, still smiling. “No?— 
But then neither have you, Major. You are very 
clever. Let us be frank. The manuscript may have 
come from Constantinople. I think I gave you that 
idea. It is worth something as an idea. This Doc- 



138 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

tor Marshall would be interested, would he not, to 
know where you got the story—and the manu¬ 
script?” 

“Well!” Her voice hardened. 

“D’you know what that fellow has had the in¬ 
fernal impudence to demand?” Hal burst out. 
“Eight hundred pounds! I told him I didn’t have it.” 

“But you can get it—not so?” 

Her eyes warned Hal, whose voice had risen. The 
old man peered over his paper in their direction. 
The American strolled past them, staring. 

Her foot tapped the floor. “Look here,” she said 
as quietly as she could. “We haven’t any such sum. 
You have nothing—nothing,” she repeated, “to gain 
from us.” 

The Greek rose with one of his supple movements. 
He stood stroking the silky wisp of his moustache 
as he gazed down at Hal. “Eight hundred, Major. 
I do not know what arrangements you have made 
with Doctor Marshall and his rich, his generous 
friend, but let me advise you-” 

Hal glowered, red of eye. “You and your advice 
be damned!” 

“Hal!” It didn’t help any to curse the creature. 

“Madame is more reasonable.” He turned to¬ 
ward her. “Let me then advise you not to leave 
London—although the weather is bad at this season 
—until you make me that little compensation. You 
would not get far.” His voice grew sharper. “It 



THE LOST VERONA 


139 

would be disagreeable, not so, to be forced to return 
from Dieppe or Calais. You see, my friends,” his 
small white hand fluttered in a deprecating gesture, 
U I have nothing to lose this time. And I should 
feel it my duty to inform Doctor Marshall that I 
sold to the Major a manuscript for what it may be 
worth—forty pounds.” 

“You think you can stop us from leaving Lon¬ 
don?” She was on her feet, facing him. 

His eyes were expressionless, as if painted on 
glass. “I regret— You cannot go without my know¬ 
ing. I have friends in the hotel. And I shall also 
be watching—and waiting.” He bowed and turned 
away, threading among tables and chairs to sit down 
in an opposite corner. 

Hal lit a cigarette, puffed, flung it down and 
ground his heel on it. “If that little rat thinks he 
can frighten me-!” 

But he knew and she knew that the Greek had 
meant what he said. “Oh, Hal, don’t be a fool. 
He’s got us. We’ll have to stay and see it through.” 
She rose wearily. Hal stood up beside her, tugging 
at his moustache. “I’d like to ring the fellow’s 
blinkin’ neck.” 

As they crossed the lounge, Antonides prepared 
to follow. 

“Telephone, sir.” A boy met Hal in the lobby. 

It was surely Marshall this time. “Remember, 
Hal. Hold on to yourself. I’ll wait in our room.” 



140 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


She waited, restlessly pacing to and fro. If 
Marshall held his tongue, they might still- 

Hal’s heavy hand opened the door. 

“We’re in for it,” he groaned. “Marshall’s all 
up in the air. Swears he saw my messenger on the 
street, yesterday— Confound Antonides! What 
with that and the story getting out, the old boy’s 
distracted.” 

“Will he talk?” 

“Talk!” Hal mopped his brow. “Wish you 
could have heard him jabberin’ over the wire. I’m 
off to see him now. Do the best I can.” He tramped 
to the window, wheeled around. “I say, old thing, 
shall we try and give Antonides the slip?” 

Not a chance in the world. “Better not. We’ll 
manage somehow.” She tried to sound cheerful. 

He grunted, took up his hat. She kissed him and 
let him go. 

Nothing for it but to put her things away again. 
Dresses and suits hanging in the closet once more. 
Take this opportunity to look over Hal’s socks. 

She sat down to her darning. In and out—out 
and in—the needle creeping. How ever had he 
worn through these new socks so soon! Oh dear, 
think of being anchored to the Carlton Hotel by a 
beastly Latin manuscript. Antonides wouldn’t hesi¬ 
tate—he wouldn’t- 

Where was her sense of humour?—as lost as the 
lost Verona, and not so easily found- 





THE LOST VERONA 


141 


3 

Hal said he had settled everything and not to 
worry. All they had to do, he said, was to hold 
down Marshall, avoid publicity and between now 
and the delivery of the manuscript lose Antonides. 
A simple little programme. 

To begin with, he had only half convinced Mar¬ 
shall that he couldn’t have seen in London a man 
who must now be on his way back from Constanti¬ 
nople. They could get in the police, Hal had gone 
so far as to propose. Of course, an investigation 
would involve them in a most unpleasant matter of 
smuggling and bribery. However, if the Professor 
wished- 

The Professor, as Hal had expected, did not wish. 
He fell into a panic at the mere idea of compromis¬ 
ing himself further. He cabled Slade not to give 
out any more information, and shut himself up with 
the photographs, in a study which had been lent to 
him in Dean’s Court. Morning and afternoon, he 
telephoned to ask if there were any news. 

Meanwhile, Antonides refused to be lost. One 
felt him everywhere in the smoky baffling pattern of 
London—dodging behind the lions of Trafalgar 
Square; blending in with the yellowish fog that 
webbed streets and gardens; padding along the em¬ 
bankment to the haunting sounds of the river. One 
felt him in the ordered spaces of the Carlton, dis- 



142 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

sembled behind drifting groups, screened by tables 
and plants. 

There was always a chance that Marshall might 
catch another glimpse of him, for on the two occa¬ 
sions when Hal went to Dean’s Court, Antonides 
followed to linger in the shadow of the neighbouring 
Abbey. 

Hal returned from the second visit to report that 
he had found Marshall in a fearful state—beginning 
to doubt his own judgment; wondering if he hadn’t 
made a mistake. 

“Damn it all,” Hal flung himself at the valise, 
rattling papers and bottles. “The old boy looks as 
if he hadn’t slept or eaten for a week. He just sits 
there poring over those photographs until he can’t 
make any sense out of them. I couldn’t myself, in 
his place.” 

Came the tinkle of bottle against glass. 

She turned in her seat at the desk where she sat 
writing to her mother—all about the latest plays and 
the lovely things Hal had bought for her in London. 

“Something’s got to be done,” Hal fretted. 
“Why, Nita, if I’d really found his blinkin’ old lost 
Verona, he wouldn’t believe it.” He sat down his 
glass with an injured air. 

Well, she couldn’t help it. She went back to her 
letter. “Hal and I haven’t done much sightseeing. 
The weather has been so-” 

Thump-bang-creak. Hal marching to and fro. 



THE LOST VERONA 


H3 

tugging at his moustache—muttering—taking up a 
book, opening and slamming it shut. 

“Hal, dear,” mildly, “I can’t write if you-” 

Silence. He had settled down with a book. The 
scratch of a match. Cigar smoke hung in the air. 

She wrote—“Hal joins me in love. Affection¬ 
ately—” There, that was done. He had left his 
bottle on the mantlepiece. Must put it away; rinse 
the glass. 

“By Jove!” He sprang from his chair. “I’ve 
got it, Nita!” 

“Got what?” She watched him anxiously from 
the bathroom door. Oh, dear, he was having an¬ 
other inspiration! 

He wouldn’t tell her what it was. And presently, 
he bustled out, his book under his arm. 

Came two beastly days of Marshall, querulous on 
the telephone; of Antonides, sleek, smiling, dogging 
their footsteps. 

At night, the manuscript seemed to rise from its 
hiding place and come to sit like a monstrous weight 
on her chest. Nightmares in Latin. The darkness 
wriggled and swarmed with angular ciphers tumbling 
like elfish acrobats through her dreams. The ghost 
of Catullus haunted her from the domes of gigantic 
mosques. 

Then one morning Hal came bounding back 
about lunch time, exultantly brandishing something 
that looked as if he might have fished it out of a 
scrap basket. “This will fix the old boy, Nita.” 



144 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


She felt cross. Here she had been waiting, 
dressed and idle for over two hours. “What on 
earth is it, Hal? A letter?” 

“Clever girl!” He straddled in front of her, his 
head cocked on one side. 

She took the thing, a sheet of parchment folded. 
More Latin! “Where did you get it?” 

“I made it.” 

“You made it! Oh, Hal!” 

“Well, I didn’t exactly make it,” he admitted 
impatiently. “I got the idea from a letter in one of 
my books. Remember the book I was reading the 
other day? A chap I happen to know—used to be 
at Oxford. Fact is, he was sent down the same time 
I was—worked it out for me. Doesn’t it look like 
the real thing, though?” 

It looked, she thought, like more trouble. “What 
are you going to do with it?” 

Well, he was going to pretend that the Turkish 
gentleman had sent it on by mail. It was supposed 
to have been found folded in with the manuscript. 

She set it down on the table. “I don’t see the 


“Look here, Nita.” He followed her to the win¬ 
dow. “You don’t understand. It simply proves the 
manuscript to be genuine. Suppose a fellow in 
Florence, Patron of Letters like this Slade, wanted 
a copy of Catullus-” 

Catullus—Catullus—she was sick of the sound of 
Catullus. 




THE LOST VERONA 


H 5 

Hal trailed her back to the table. “He’d have to 
borrow a manuscript to have it copied, wouldn’t he?” 

She supposed he would. She would even grant 
that the Verona people might have entrusted their 
precious Catullus to a messenger who never reached 
his destination, losing himself and the manuscript 

somewhere en route. But- 

“If you’ll only listen, Nita.” Hal grabbed up 
his masterpiece, glowing again with pride. “Here, 
I’ll read the address in Latin so that you can hear 
how it sounds. And I’ll translate the rest. Now 
the address goes like this—‘Ad Reverendum Patrem 

Bibliothecae Veronensis Praefectum’-” 

Quite clever of him, really, to read Latin. Didn’t 
doubt his cleverness as much as she feared it. 

He gave a pompous imitation of Marshall— 
“Now listen carefully, Nita, and you’ll see the point. 
I’m translating—understand? Now—! After the 
address, I begin— ‘I am returning to you by a special 
trusty messenger the Catullus which you kindly 
allowed me to have in order that I might get a copy 
made for Coluccio, the Chancellor of Florence. 
Although my messenger will not have to pass 
through the disturbed regions of the city, I have, 
nevertheless, ordered him to go thoroughly armed’ 
— Then I put the signature. I looked it all up— 
‘Casparus de Broaspinis—A.D. 11 kal. December 
1374’—Great stuff, that. Convince anybody.” 

Convincing enough, if you wanted to be convinced. 
But something warned her- 





THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


146 

“I think it’s wonderful, Hal. I don’t see, though 
—in two days now you can give him the manuscript. 
What’s the use of this?” 

That set him off. The use of it? Well, if she’d 
seen Marshall, she’d know. This explained every¬ 
thing: how the manuscript had left Verona, and how 
the messenger had probably got into a fight—hadn’t 
she noticed that part about his going armed? He’d 
read a letter almost like it in his book. Only 
changed the names and dates. Here was a docu¬ 
ment proving that the manuscript must have been 
stolen by people who didn’t know its value. Prob¬ 
ably they passed it on to others, and so on, until, 
somehow, it reached Constantinople. Clear as day. 
“And Marshall’s getting it for nothing,” Hal ended 
in a sulky tone. 

She had spoiled his planned effect, impaired his 
confidence. She put a hand on his arm. His face 
was all puckered and red with disappointment. 
“Hal, dear, let’s wait, shall we? You can always 
use it at the last moment if you have to.” 

“When I’ve gone to all the trouble—” he mut¬ 
tered. “I tell you, the old boy needs bucking up. 
Look at it, why don’t you? I challenge any expert. 
Why, I’d be taken in, myself.” 

She didn’t want to look at it. “Hal, will you do 
me a favour ?” She clung to him, coaxing. “Let me 
keep it for you. If you really need it later-” 

“No!” he snapped, stubborn and frowning. 

She loosened her hold and turned away. Walked 



THE LOST VERONA 


H 7 

a few steps, head and shoulders drooping. He was 
watching her. “Why do you worry me so?” She 
asked it of him wearily, trailing across the room to 
the window where she stood staring out at the 
muggy sky. 

“Damn it all!” His voice sounded jerky and 
muffled. “Have your own way then. I think it’s 
bally rot. But I don’t want you fussing and fretting. 
I say, Nita—don’t.” 

She was waiting for that, and flew to him, standing 
on tiptoe to give him a hug. “Dear old thing.” His 
bristly cheek scratched against hers. 

He watched her moodily while she tucked his con¬ 
vincing letter in her handbag. 

“Well, I won’t answer for anything now,” said 
he in the tone of one who has done his best. “We’ll 
be in a pretty pickle, though, if Marshall balks at 
the last moment, and Antonides holds out for his 
money.” 

She tried for brightness. “Antonides wouldn’t 
hold us in that case. Wait two more days anyway.” 

“Marshall hasn’t telephoned, has he?” Hal pre¬ 
tended to be absorbed in his nails. Wandered over 
to the bureau. 

Why, so he hadn’t. Bad sign. 

Neither that evening nor the next morning did any 
word come. Something had to be done. That was 
evident. And Hal was too nervous to do it. He 
didn’t say anything, but she knew what he was think¬ 
ing. If, on the high wave of confidence, he had taken 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


148 

the letter to Marshall, the situation might be very- 
different now. 

And to-morrow was the day—the twelfth day. 

She waited until after lunch. Hal, silent, irri¬ 
table, lay heavily on the bed. She covered him with 
a comforter. A nap would do him good. 

Quick now, her hat, the large black velvet one. 
White gloves. She gave a last look in the mirror. 
Tiptoed over to the bed. “I’m going out do an 
errand, dear. I’ll be back soon.” 

He grunted, flopping over on his side. It wasn’t 
like him to give in like this. She touched him lightly 
on the forehead. Stole away. 

4 

An anxious little woman in black velvet, trotting 
along Whitehall. London seemed huger that after¬ 
noon, caught in the tarnished stuff of a mist almost 
palpable, through which people drained of colour 
appeared to move more slowly—a brick-faced 
Tommy and his cockney sweetheart, a one-legged 
man selling postcards with the white badge of ex- 
service on his cap, an athletic young girl in a felt 
hat and muffler, a middle-aged man who looked as 
if he had been baked in his clothes. 

Big Ben struck full and rich. One-two-three. She 
thought of the bells of Florence, the bells of Paris. 
Wished now she had told Hal where she was going. 
Antonides, stationed in the hotel lobby, had bowed 


THE LOST VERONA 


149 


as she passed. His smile linked him with shady 
business; linked him with Hal. She shivered, 
glanced behind her. No, he hadn’t followed. She 
stopped to ask her way. These English bobbies were 
handsome creatures. 

Nearly there now. The bulk of the Abbey rose 
grim in the fog. Dean’s Court must lie behind. 
She felt shy coming upon it. 

Pinched trees on a wintry patch of ground. Stone 
under foot, stone hemming her in. No place, this, 
for Nita Brassington-Welsh. Hushed and bleak in 
the mist, a solemn row of houses eyed her austerely. 
If she didn’t hurry, she would turn back. 

That narrow-shouldered one must be the house. 
An effort now to mount the steps. Smile at the 
porter. Up narrow stairs, wanly lit. Offices—a 
musty smell of papers. 

The top floor and a door. She knocked. No 
answer, but you could hear the faint sound of papers 
rustling. She opened the door. 

“Mrs. Brassington-Welsh! How very kind! 
You must excuse me, I haven’t been feeling well.” 
The Professor bobbed up, startled, from a big lit¬ 
tered desk. In the focussed rays of a low hanging, 
green shaded lamp, his moustache looked like a 
dripping blot of ink. He wore over his eyes a green 
thing that resembled the visor of a jockey’s cap. 
He pushed it higher on his bulging white forehead, 
as, hurriedly, he advanced. 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


150 

“Why, Doctor Marshall!” Her prepared bright¬ 
ness was lost in the small stuffy room. No wonder 
the man was half dead, mooning in here. “We were 
worried about you.” She stood, not knowing quite 
what to do while he groped for a chair. It smelt 
of old books and stale tobacco. Someone ought to 
take care of him. It was really a shame- 

“I don’t suppose you have any news?” His eyes, 
behind their glasses, blinked watery, red-rimmed. 

Poor worried old thing! She thought of the letter 
in her handbag. Hesitated. 

“I can’t really make out these photographs. You 
see, the readings are so different from any other 
of the manuscripts, and so near what I have always 
believed the lost Verona—” He moved around 
to his desk, nervously shifting papers. “But they 
are so different— I’m afraid too different. I don’t 
know any more—I don’t know.” His voice sounded 
wispier than ever in this room of dusty books and 
papers. 

Perhaps Hal was right after all. Her fingers 
moved at the catch of her bag. 

“You see these?” He grubbed about in the litter, 
pushed a sheaf of cables toward her. “From my 
colleagues— Most upsetting to be congratulated be¬ 
fore—I don’t know—I don’t really know. I told 
your husband I was almost sure I saw the man—the 
messenger. Since then, I haven’t had a moment’s 
peace.” 



THE LOST VERONA 


151 

Should she? She drew out the parchment letter. 
She leaned forward impulsively. “Hal told me to 
give you this, Doctor Marshall.” No going back 
now. “He got it by mail this morning from Con¬ 
stantinople. It’s a letter found with the manuscript. 
He thought-” 

Marshall was up from his desk, standing beside 
her. His hand trembled as he took the thing. 

She sank back in the shabby leather chair. Stared 
at a half empty glass of milk on the edge of the 
desk—horrid stuff. Had she done right—had she? 

How still he was! He must have read it through 
by now. 

He had turned and was groping for the window. 
She saw him, a dingy little figure in loose fitting 
black, outlined against the sickly light. She wasn’t 
afraid. But strangely her heart stirred, seemed to 
pull her toward him. 

“Doctor Marshall.” 

He didn’t answer. 

“Doctor Marshall.” The room closed in, stifling. 
She rose quickly, crossed over. Touched his arm. 

He didn’t look at her. “This letter isn’t genuine.” 
He spoke in a queer tired voice, staring out at the 
looming grey towers of the Abbey. 

“Not genuine? But Doctor Marshall—” No, 
she couldn’t pretend. Her throat went dry and 
tight. 

“The date is wrong. Coluccio wasn’t—” 


The 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


152 

thin voice broke off. His gesture was hopeless. 
“It’s a flagrant, clumsy forgery. You say your hus¬ 
band got this from Constantinople?” 

She could only nod, plucking at her bag. 

“My child, this is a great blow to me—a great 
blow.” He walked unsteadily to his desk, bent over 
the photographs. “I’ve made a mistake,” he said. 
“The letter wouldn’t have been necessary if—” An 
old man, broken and weary, he sank into his chair, 
covered his face with his hands. 

She stood wavering beside him, caught with this 
old man in the hoary dust of some tragedy beyond 
her. All for a manuscript—just a manuscript. She 
hadn’t understood; hadn’t realised. 

If he had only turned on Hal as others had turned 
before! How little and mean she felt! She and 
Hal—what were they but mean adventurers?—tak¬ 
ing advantage of a credulous old man. No word of 
comfort to give him. She slid on to her knees, took 
his poor cold fingers in hers. “I’m sorry!” 

“Don’t worry, my dear—don’t worry.” He tried 
to pat her hand. “It isn’t your fault. I should have 
known.” 

Words were hot within, beating, pressing to be 
out. No, she couldn’t give Hal away. “I’m sorry.” 

But he had forgotten her. She heard him like a 
far away little wind sighing— “A laughing-stock— 
never get back after this—my whole life-” 

It did mean his life. She saw that now. He had 



THE LOST VERONA 153 

staked his professional reputation— And she had 
thought it a joke! 

What was that! Voices in the hall. Hal’s voice 
raised, arguing. 

The Professor didn’t move. She stumbled to her 
feet. 

Someone pounded on the door. Hal burst in, 
brandishing a flat parcel. Behind him, before he 
could bang the door to, slipped the Greek. 

“Hello—hello. Didn’t know you were here, Nita. 
Professor—” Hal plunged through the stillness as 
through a paper hoop. “I’ve got something here 
you’ll be glad to see. My messenger arrived a day 
earlier—” And he turned to glare at Antonides. 

That’s what came of leaving him alone. He 
hadn’t been able to wait. He wasn’t going to wait 
now. He snapped the string of his parcel in a way 
that meant business. 

“Listen to me.” Her voice whipped out. 

The Professor tried to rise, sank limply back in 
his chair. “The manuscript is worth nothing.” She 
stood very still, facing them. 

“What!” Hal was in no mood for shocks. 

She could deal with him. Between them there 
was always that awareness, as of a language known 
only to themselves. But Antonides! 

She lifted her head. She felt the Greek dark and 
foreign, uneasy. Her eyes met those smooth shiny 
ones. He had moved, edging nearer to the door. 


154 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“Hal, we can’t let the Professor suffer. He— 
we’ve made a mistake. You’ll pay back that money, 
won’t you? You’ll want to do that.” It was all 
she could think of. The very least they could do. 

“I couldn’t allow,” came faintly from Marshall. 

Ah, but Hal would pay it back. He didn’t under¬ 
stand yet. When he did- 

Antonides understood, though. His hand was on 
the knob of the door. 

He had nothing to gain, and he knew it. “Mr. 
Antonides, you’d better go. You see-” 

He saw. The door opened, shut softly. 

“I say—but, Nita—” Hal wasn’t to give up so 
easily. The moment Antonides left, he thought— 
poor old Hal—that she had played for just this. 
She had helped so often before. 

And now with the Greek gone, and his assurance 
recovered, he pranced forward. 

“Hal, the letter-” 

But with one of his handsome gestures, he had 
unwrapped the manuscript, thrust it into Marshall’s 
hand. “Take my word for it, Doctor-” 

“Oh, don’t!” she cried. “Oh, don’t.” 

The old man under the green shaded lamp me¬ 
chanically fingered the pages. 

With a sob, she took Hal’s arm. “My dear, 
don’t you understand yet?” She drew him into the 
shadows by the window. 

“I gave him the letter,” she whispered. “He 
knew right away.” 






THE LOST VERONA 


Hal whistled. Then was curiously still, staring 
out at the gaunt black trees, the masses of stone. 

Suddenly she felt him close. “Nita, old girl, don’t 
you worry. We’ll manage-” 

“Hal, dear, it isn’t that. It doesn’t matter 
about us.” 

A shrill cry whirled them around. Marshall, 
deathly white, stood wavering under the light, a 
hand flattened on the manuscript, the other gripping 
the edge of the table. 

Oh, he mustn’t break down. She started for him. 

But now she saw him more clearly, transfigured. 
He was pointing down at the page. What was he 
saying? 

“Catullus — Catullus — the most extraordi¬ 
nary-” 

Then Hal’s voice, booming, filled the room. Hal’s 
hand, swung high, the big heavy palm descending on 
the straightened old shoulders. 

“Knew it all along, sir— There you are! If ever 
you need to find any more manuscripts, you come 
to me. It’s the biggest-” 

And Marshall’s voice, tremulous, “You had 
faith, Major. I didn’t see how I could have made 
a mistake. But I-” 

Faith! An odd kind of faith when even now she 
could hardly believe— So it was real! They hadn’t 
thought of that. They had thought of everything 
else. 






156 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

Marshall’s voice went on and on. She didn’t need 
to listen. 

She wanted to feel proud. For once, she and 
Hal- 

The Professor smiled at her. 

A great tenderness, a warmth filled her and made 
all things seem right. She went to him and took his 
hand in both of hers. 

“Oh, I’m so glad—if you knew how glad!” And 
she looked up into his face. 



CHAPTER V 


BRASSINGTON HALL 
I 

T HE time had come, Hal said, to settle down. 
He had had enough of this roving about, 
living a homeless dog’s life. Hang it all, a 
man owed something to society. He admitted he 
owed a lot. But They, whoever they were, couldn’t 
down him any longer. In contributing that valuable 
old manuscript to the world of letters, he had demon¬ 
strated his sense and judgment. 

All he asked of Dr. Marshall was not to give the 
papers the story of Constantinople because of pos¬ 
sible complications for his friend the Turkish official. 
To this, Marshall reluctantly consented. 

Hal’s performance for inevitable interviewers was 
the finished product of a resourceful imagination. 
His picture appeared in several sheets as that of a 
travelled gentleman of leisure through whom the 
distinguished scholar had obtained a rare prize. 
Also his own version of the past. Never mind who 
did or didn’t believe it. He was about to show her, 
Nita, what, given the chance and a bit of money to 
start on, he could do. An idea had long been germi- 
157 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


158 

nating in his fertile brain, awaiting its opportunity. 

There was one thing about Hal. When he had 
an idea, he carried it through no matter where it 
led him—or her. This particular idea, when first he 
confided it to her, appeared in the blazing light of 
wildest fancy. He could never, never manage it. 
To get back Brassington Hall and turn the grounds 
into the paying proposition of an exclusive golf 
course! Never. Couldn’t be done. 

Yet it was done. Major Brassington-Welsh in 
honourable action was a stupendous sight—a sight 
she had given up hope of ever seeing. He made her 
ashamed of her lack of faith. 

He had overcome every obstacle, overweighed 
every objection, every argument. Had leased Bras¬ 
sington Hall for ten years, paid the first year’s term, 
and transformed field and pasture into an ideal golf 
course. To accomplish this, he had actually gained 
the financial and social backing of gouty conservative 
old Lord Lansmere, who, as President of the Club, 
ensured its success. Lansmere had been hard to win, 
but he had been impressed, of course, by the publicity 
given Hal and Doctor Marshall. And Hal had con¬ 
vinced the old gentleman that black sheep can turn 
white overnight. Having known Hal’s people made 
a difference, and then—well, it was a perfectly sound 
proposition. It couldn’t fail with Lansmere be¬ 
hind it. 

Why, Lansmere had even insisted that his son, 
Eric Grey, be Hal’s secretary. Thought it might 


BRASSINGTON HALL 


H 9 

be a good thing for Eric to profit by the example of 
a reformed sinner. Eric was on the merry way to 
being a sinner, himself. 

As she stood looking out of the open window of 
the old library she wondered, even now after four 
months, if it were true: if the bright scene before her 
were not a drop-curtain suddenly to be whisked away 
leaving her staring at the impersonal walls and plush 
furniture of some continental hotel bedroom. But 
there was no trickery in the cool dusk of the high 
wainscoted room with its shelves upon shelves of 
books, nor yet in the robust unstartled sweep of land 
lit by June. 

Yes, this was Brassington Hall, this sturdy old 
house of wings and towers from which Hal had been 
exiled so long ago. And to think that now Hal was 
Honorary Secretary and Treasurer of the Brassing¬ 
ton Golf Club. Hal a treasurer! 

She touched the rose in the buttonhole of her 
jacket. Was this she, Nita, in a tweed suit with only 
a thin dusting of pow T der over a skin that was 
younger, healthier than it had been for many a day, 
and with lips that lifted more lightly under a dimin¬ 
ished tracery of scarlet? 

The new golf links, one hundred and fifty acres 
of. Brassington land within an hour of London, 
dipped and curved, melting in pastures beyond, run¬ 
ning along the thready gleam of a brook, rising in 
bunkers, flattening to the damask squares of putting 
greens. The first day of the tournament was on. 


160 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

Against the clean blue sky Lansmere Abbey 
loomed feudal, dominating its hill. Over the grassy 
stretches below, players moved slowly, stooping in 
concentrated poses to rise with a swing of arms. 
A parasol opened like a flower. In blobs of colour, 
sweaters flashed across the green. Presently all 
these people—friends of Lansmere’s, members of the 
Club—would gather for tea on the broad silken 
terrace of Brassington Hall. Hal needn’t have made 
this lavish unnecessary gesture when the dower house 
fitted up as a club house could have provided just 
as well for its new members. 

She wished they might have started out with a 
little less show, fewer servants, a more modest pro¬ 
gramme of entertainment. 

That beastly portrait again! In this room, she 
always felt it, harsh, contemptuous, sneering at her 
from the heavy frame. She turned impatiently. In 
two opposite niches between oak book-shelves, Colo¬ 
nel Welsh and Mrs. Brassington-Welsh faced one 
another. Hal’s mother, poor anaemic lady, sat in a 
faded pose of resignation, hair parted, hands folded, 
as if all her life had been drained away in vain 
appeals. And yet, house and land and the long line 
of Brassingtons reaching back, came from her. The 
old Colonel knew what he was doing when he mar¬ 
ried her. Look at him now glowering down with his 
harsh dark eyes. She resented the resemblance to 
Hal, Same thick brows, long nose, brick red colour. 
But there was no cheer in the expression of this un- 


• BRASSINGTON HALL 


161 


forgiving old man who seemed to be demanding- 

“Who are you? I never heard of the Moffetts of 
Stamford. You were a fool to marry my son. Why 
have you hung on to him when any decent woman 
would have left him long ago?” 

“I’m not that kind of a decent woman.” She 
spoke aloud fiercely, standing like a boy, her hands 
thrust in the deep pockets of her jacket. 

Absurd to allow a portrait to get so on one’s 
nerves. She went back to the window. Why, there 
was Hal talking to a man. Dear old Hal in the role 
of a jovial country squire, standing with a horsey, 
wishbone curve to his legs, his check cap pulled over 
one eye, his dark moustache like a stirrup, on which 
was mounted a ruddy, beaming expression. In one 
of his expansive moods. Showing off. His hand, 
gripping that vile stubby pipe of his, swept out in a 
large encircling gesture which took in the country¬ 
side. All his—his golf course, his land, his Eng¬ 
land. How solid he looked in that Norfolk jacket 
and baggy breeches! 

He looked up, waved with a boyish toss of his 
cap. His companion turned, and even at that 
distance, she felt the keen directness of his gaze. 
Bare-headed for this long-range introduction, he 
stood in relief against the brilliant light—spare of 
figure, long of arm, his hair bleached as grass in 
summer’s heat. Not English. Her heart tapped the 
old note of fear against doors she had closed and 
locked. 



162 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


She had never seen this man before. Smile and 
wave back. The sun picked her out as she stood 
framed in the ivy-crowned window. 

“May I come in? How’s everything?” 

She hadn’t heard the door open. “Everything’s 
fine.” She glanced over her shoulder at Eric Grey 
as he sauntered across the room. A bit seedy to-day. 
The pink of his cheek and blue of his eye were 
obviously recovering from a night in town. 

He admitted his sins, standing loosely beside her, 
fingering his short, blond moustache. “I feel 
rotten,” he said, as from one comrade to another. 

“You look it.” She tried to sound severe, but 
the engaging way he always assumed her indulgence 
disarmed her. She found herself recommending a 
nap. 

“Just had one. I say, you know, you and the 
Major are rippin’ good sports.” He grinned down 
at her. 

The glare of the sun was really too intense. She 
drew back with a suggestive motion toward the desk. 
“If you have any secretarial duties to attend to, I’d 
better go.” 

“Thanks awfully.” He didn’t look enthusiastic. 
“By Jove, there’s old Hawkes with the Major. 
Must have nipped around here from the station. 
We were expecting him on the 2.10.” Suddenly 
animated, he thrust his sleek head out of the window. 

“Who is he ?” She braved the light again. 

Young Grey brushed by her as he righted himself 


BRASSINGTON HALL 


163 

briskly. Jerry Hawkes? She must have heard of 
him. He owned one of the biggest sporting goods 
houses in the States—Hawkes & Browning. Quite 
a decent sort in spite of that. Keen on golf. Spent 
half of every year in England. 

She watched the two men moving off below in the 
brilliant sunshine—the American scissor-shaped, 
steely. She could almost hear the boom of Hal’s 
voice as he swaggered expansively beside his guest. 
.They turned the right wing of the house. 

“Is he playing in the tournament?” 

Eric, frowning slightly, shook his head, lit a 
cigarette. “I hope those two hit it off.” 

“Why shouldn’t they?” She hadn’t meant that 
sharp note. 

The young man hesitated. Perched on the edge of 
the big littered table, a knee looped over the corner, 
he studied her a moment. “It would simplify mat¬ 
ters. The Governor’s got quite a bit invested in the 
Club. Surprisin’ how much it takes to set up a 
thing like this. He’s in an awful funk and old 
Hawkes-” 

She stood listening to his jerky explanations with 
a faint sense of chill as if she had moved from the 
saturating warmth of noon into the brusque shadow 
of stone walls. So Lansmere wasn’t satisfied with 
the way things were going. He wanted this Jerry 
Hawkes to come in with them. Wanted to form a 
company. Hawkes had been invited down to look 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


164 

over the proposition, incidentally to look Hal over, 
she supposed. 

“You see, the Governor can’t put up another bob,” 
Eric explained, absently shoving aside the desk tele¬ 
phone. “Feels poorer than ever. I know because 
I tried to borrow a few quid from him the other 
day.” He made a wry face. 

She was in no joking mood. “A lot depends, then, 
on whether Mr. Hawkes thinks we’re worth while?” 
Her voice kept its edge. Why did they have to 
drag in this stranger! 

“I say, don’t take it so hard.” Eric slid from his 
careless pose. “Don’t see, myself, what the Gov¬ 
ernor’s makin’ such a fuss about. We’ve employed 
local labour. They’re not going to come down on us. 
Barry won’t send in his bill for another three months. 
By then, the initiation fees-” 

She stared at the small safe in the wainscoting be¬ 
hind the desk. Very little she didn’t know about 
credit and unpaid bills. “What if Mr. Hawkes 
doesn’t-” 

“Oh, he’ll come in. Practically told the Governor 
so,” Eric assured her. “You see, he’s thinkin’ of 
buying a place around here. Jolly nice for him to 
have a control in the Club.” 

A control. How jolly would that be for Hall 
She caught the sardonic eye of the portrait. Then 
from the window, the intense shimmer of blue drew 
her gaze. She was lost in it as in a shining prairie 
frhere nothing else counted. 




BRASSINGTON HALL i6y 

“It’s all right.” Eric’s voice roused her. He was 
fiddling with Hal’s typewriter. 

Oh, well, it would have to be all right. “Are you 
coming to the party?” Her lips parted, curled. 
Even in tweeds she could be arch, beguiling. 

“Bally nuisance, teas,” he affected to grumble, 
tapping the machine with one long shapely finger. 
His face was puckered like a small boy’s doing sums. 

She laughed. “Don’t tire yourself.” 

As she closed the door, the tick of the machine 
stopped. No danger of his overworking. She re¬ 
opened the door softly. He stood there staring at 
nothing—a dapper young man, exquisitely tailored. 
How suddenly old he looked. People off their guard 
had a way of looking old. But there was something 
else in the droop of his features as if a spring that 
held them together had relaxed. Worried. He 
hadn’t been frank with her. He was worried about 
this business with Hawkes. 

She closed the door again silently. The house 
spread very old and watchful about her. Light 
pried through a leaded window, lay shallow on the 
dark polished floor. From the far reaches of the 
gallery faces seemed to be peering at her—the 
stranger here. 

With small hushed steps, she hurried to their 
room overlooking the rose garden. She moved shyly 
among faded chintz and Adams furniture. The 
maid had laid out everything—a white linen gown 


i66 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


with an embroidered surplice effect, white stockings, 
shoes. Hal evidently wasn’t going to change. 

What a day of roses, of bird notes and humming 
of bees in the air. England strong about her. Why 
spoil it by thinking of Jerry Hawkes. She thought 
of him. 

2 

She paused on the wide oak stairs to peer down 
at the great hall where among strong dark furniture 
and tapestries groups of florid gentlemen stood 
about as if they had strayed there by mistake and 
were waiting to be shown the way out. She didn’t 
see herself in the picture. A shade too vivacious and 
blonde, perhaps, for such undemonstrative company. 

From the shadows of the landing the portrait of 
Sir Philip Brassington gently mocked. A gallant 
creature in his furbelows—his lace and silks, his 
plumed hat set rakishly on his long curls. Very little 
he didn’t know about men—and women. She caught 
his debonair smile and held it for her own as she 
trotted down the last steps. 

There was Mr. Hawkes glancing around as if he 
were hunting for someone. He was of a crisper cut 
than the other men. You couldn’t tell much from 
that impassive bronzed face accented by the oddly 
light hair. Young or old? 

A gracious little woman in white, she advanced, 
head tilted back for a bright play of eye and mouth. 


BRASSINGTON HALL 167 

“Are you wondering where my husband is, Mr. 
Hawkes? So am I.” 

Yes, his eyes were grey, but he needn’t look at her 
that way, as if he were a gimlet searching for a 
likely spot to drill through. 

“Mrs. Brassington-Welsh?” He faintly under¬ 
lined the Brassington. His voice was like a very 
fine wire in a wind. You could fancy messages that 
were not for you humming overhead. 

“I’ve just left your husband.” He hesitated. 
“Can you tell me where I can find Lord Lansmere? 
I believe he is to be here this afternoon.” 

Wasn’t the man ever going to smile? Her own 
expression fluttered open and shut like a gay little 
fan for which one has no use. “Perhaps he’s in the 
garden. Won’t you let me give you some tea?” 

The small graces of a hostess were lost on him. 
“Thank you, no.” He moved as if he didn’t wish 
to take up too much of her time. 

Should she say anything about his business here? 
Better not. “I’m sorry.” She flashed her smile 
again, inviting response. 

“I’m sorry, too.” He sounded sorry, and for an 
instant in that vibrant tone she thought she detected 
a special message for herself. 

“I do hope you’ll like us, Mr. Hawkes.” That at 
least wasn’t going too far. 

Farther, however, than he meant to go. He 
bowed. And she knew that he wanted to get away. 
Her gesture released him. 


i68 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Those steely grey eyes swiftly probed. Then 
she was left to watch his thin agile figure cross the 
hall, his long arms swinging at his sides. 

A cool, hard man. Didn’t like him. He and 
Hal would never agree. Well, they’d pull through 
somehow without Mr. Jerry Hawkes. 

The big hall seemed suddenly crowded with fur¬ 
niture, flowers, people. Good heavens, of what was 
she thinking, standing here like a school girl ? Little 
phrases came tripping graciously as she went for¬ 
ward to one, to the other. 

“How do you do. Won’t you have some tea?” 
“Yes, the buffet is in the blue room, and you’ll find 
tables on the terrace.” Oh, quite—oh, very. Beau¬ 
tiful day. Ripping game. 

Voices like a scenic railway swooping up, swooping 
down and around curves. Red faces, brown faces. 
Women in abominable hats. Women with faces like 
sheep and horses, and little frizzled dogs. Women 
with beautiful skins, and loud breezy manners. The 
groups drifted, dissolved. She felt as if she had 
just taken her eyes and mouth out of curl papers. 

Now where was Hal? Perhaps in the smoking 
room. 

She knew him to be there before she reached the 
door. She heard the louder man-noise, the laughter, 
and above it all a hearty voice booming good cheer. 

Yes, he would be in the centre of men in the 
leathered ease of that room, among pipe and cigar 
smoke and the tinkle of glasses. Major Brassing- 


BRASSINGTON HALL 


169 

ton-Welsh astride of the occasion, off at a brisk gal¬ 
lop in the wind of a waggish humour. Red and jolly, 
he stood guffawing at his own stories. Eric Grey 
lounged beside him. 

From the door, she watched him jovially clap Eric 
on the back to mark some point. How fond he was 
of the boy! Everything must be all right or he 
wouldn’t- 

He sighted her and roared a welcome. “Gentle¬ 
men, my wife.” 

And now she was among them flushed and smiling. 
They drew themselves up, very solemn as if she had 
caught them at mischief. Hal thundered out names 
with a wink and a joke for each—Mr. Furthering, 
Mr. Mannes-Carr, Captain Barclay- 

“And Mr. McDonald, my dear, who has a Scotch 
eye on the Brassington cup.” His laughter filled the 
room. “More cups than one, eh, McDonald?” 

“Hal,” she managed it discreetly. “May I speak 
to you a moment?” 

“Certainly—certainly.” He beamed down upon 
her, calling on them all to envy his privilege. 
“Domestic secrets. Wait till you’re married, Eric, 
my boy.” 

Eric twinkled in her direction and strolled off, 
sleek as a young seal. The other men retreated to 
the farther end of the room. Hal stood huge and 
rollicking beside her, twirling his moustache. 

“Hal, I think you ought to come out with me and 
talk to people.” 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


170 

“Been everywhere. Seen everyone,” he rumbled. 

“How did you get on with Mr. Hawkes?” she 
asked it suddenly. 

“Oh, all right.” He rocked to and fro, rubbing 
his chin, slanting at her down his nose. 

Not his most convincing air. “How all right?” 

“I say, old dear, this isn’t the time-” 

She knew that peevish note. Everything wasn’t 
all right. “Hal, I wish you’d tell me.” 

“Well, I’m telling you,” he mumbled. “Can’t say 
I’m crazy about the fellow. He asks too damn many 
questions.” 

So he asked questions, did he? Other men were 
drifting into the room, a thirsty eye on the decanters. 
No place for her here. She turned away slowly. 

Hal swaggered beside her to the door, chest thrust 
out, hands in his pockets. “I’ll be along in a moment, 
old girl.” He seemed relieved to get rid of her. 

Everywhere a rattle of conversation. People sat, 
stood, drifted about as if the place belonged to them. 
Her little smile hung like a gay red rag that has been 
left to dry in the sun. But the warmth of the day 
had left her. 

In the blue room of damask hangings and polished 
surfaces the small gilt chairs were pushed aside. 
Among devastated refreshments and fish-eyed ser¬ 
vants, several old ladies of the scavenger type sat on, 
nibbling, gossiping. They peered at her inquisitively. 
A fat, hairy little man crammed the last of a pink 



BRASSINGTON HALL 


171 

sugared cake into his mouth and slid away as if he 
were afraid she might speak to him. 

At small tables on the terrace which opened out 
sharply green from the blue room, groups were still 
seated smoking, chatting. The men rose at her ap¬ 
proach, the women handled their adjectives like 
lorgnettes. Parties were hateful, especially when as 
a hostess you seemed to be superfluous. 

She wandered farther into the garden where fan¬ 
tastically clipped out of yew, Noah’s ark animals 
perched on the broad hedges. Symmetrical. Every¬ 
thing was symmetrical—the flowers so bright in the 
bright air, these people so well groomed. Brassing- 
ton Hall heaved up with tower and huge chimneys, 
rich and red of surface where ivy and creepers held 
back. 

She turned along a pebbled path leading to a 
smaller rose garden. Scent of roses, of honey, of 
lavender. Good to be alone. Forget all these 
people. Hal loved his roses. He- 

Eric came running toward her. His slim body 
seemed oddly disjointed. He drew nearer and she 
saw his face. 

Something had happened. 

He reached her, gripped her arm. “The Gover¬ 
nor and your husband are having the most beastly 
row. I daren’t interfere. Can you-?” 

A row. Hal and Lord Lansmere! “Where?” 
She ran behind him. Her breath caught as on little 
hooks. A stitch in her side. 




172 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Splash of pink, of red, of white—the rose garden. 
Intolerable fragrance. A bird wheeled in the blue. 

“I tell you, you’re a scoundrel.” Old Lansmere’s 
voice was borne harshly through an open window. 
“You’ll get out or-” 

Eric held her back, screened by the bushes. “It’s 
ghastly,” he whispered. “There’s old Barclay and 
—Don’t let ’em see you.” 

“I’ll be damned if I do.” Hal bellowing. 

Must stop it—stop it. Those people—she could 
see them through the bushes, gaping up at the 
window. 

“Eric, try to get them away. I’ll go-” 

She went floundering, stumbling ahead. Must be 
a door somewhere in this wing. She found it. A 
narrow hall, then the pantry. The servants were 
huddled there. She brushed by them, by their star¬ 
ing eyes, their wooden bodies. The noise of quarrel 
exploded in the hush. 

Yes, this was the door. She pushed it open, collid¬ 
ing against Jerry Hawkes who moved back stiffly. 

In the small red room of dappled sunlight she saw 
only Hal standing, his eyes bloodshot, his fists 
clenched. Facing him, distorted with anger, Lord 
Lansmere, beak nosed, thin shouldered, leaned on 
his ivory-knobbed stick. 

“What is it?” She crossed to close the window. 
“Everyone can hear you.” Her voice sounded sharp 
as if she were scolding children. “Now what is it, 




BRASSINGTON HALL 


173 

Hal-?” She went to him, laid a hand on his 

arm. He was trembling. 

“Madam,” Lord Lansmere glowered in her direc¬ 
tion. “I think you had better leave us to settle this 
matter.” 

“I think not.” She braved him, her green eyes 
bright with battle. 

Hal’s fury mounted again. “They want to drive 
me out, Nita.” He was near to suffocation. 

“Drive you out!” She turned slowly to Hawkes. 
He was the one. His doing. 

“I’ve been forced,” his voice slim and cold 
twanged through the tension, “to tell my friend, 
Lord Lansmere, why I will have nothing to do with 
the Brassington Golf Club while your husband holds 
office.” 

Hal wheeled about to glare at him. “You damn 
meddling-” 

“Major!” The man didn’t move, but his eyes 
warned. 

Lansmere tramped back and forth, muttering. 

They were hurting him. Under her hand, she felt 
his muscles twitch. “What does this mean, Hal?” 

“Mr. Hawkes has discovered that I am myself.” 
His voice was thick and bitter. “Myself apparently 
can’t be trusted to hold a gentleman’s position. So— 
Lord Lansmere has asked me to resign.” His shoul¬ 
ders heaved as he laboured for breath. “I’m to be 
driven out, Nita.” 

But they couldn’t do this. Her clasp tightened on 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


174 

his arm. Steady now. Steady. Keep their heads 
clear. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brassington-Welsh.” Hawkes 
was looking at her. 

Sorry! He had said that once before. And he 
had gone ahead. 

“When Lord Lansmere spoke to me about the 
Club,” he said, “I was under the impression that 
Mr. Brassington had always lived here. I should 
have recognised at once the hyphenated name.” 

“We weren’t hiding,” she flung at him. 

Lansmere tapped his stick on the floor. “You 
were hiding the notorious reputation of your hus^ 
band, Madam.” 

“Leave my wife out of it,” Hal thundered. 

If only they would be quieter. Their voices 
jangled in her head. 

Hawkes lifted his hand. “A moment, please. I 
put it up to your husband squarely. I asked him if 
he had ever known a friend of mine, a Mr. Craw¬ 
ford. He didn’t deny it.” 

“My past life is no one’s business.” Hal struggled 
for control. 

“I make it my business, sir,” the old gentleman 
snapped. “You knew that I should never have per¬ 
mitted my name to be associated with that of a man 
who deserves to be in prison.” 

Hal started. She held him back. “That isn’t 
fair,” she cried and turned on Hawkes. “We didn’t 
invite you here. It’s our house. Why did you-?” 



BRASSINGTON HALL 


175 

“You can’t do it,” Hal burst out again. “You 
can’t force me-” 

“And I tell you I can,” Lansmere shouted, waving 
his stick. 

She gave a hard little laugh. “Well, Mr. Hawkes, 
you’ve managed to stir up a good deal of mud. Not 
very sportsmanlike of you, is it?” 

“If I thought—” Hawkes looked closely at 
Hal, who was tugging at his moustache. 

Lansmere stumped over to the door. “I’ll have 
nothing more to do with you, sir. I’ll make the 
county too hot for you. You’ll be forced to leave.” 

With a movement that shook her hand from his 
arm, Hal stubbornly squared his shoulders. “You’ll 
have to use force then.” He stood huge, braced 
against the wall. “By God, I’m here and I’ll stay 
here in my own house, on my own land. You can’t 
run your club without my consent, sir.” 

“We’ll see about that.” Lansmere flung open the 
door. Slammed it. 

Jerry Hawkes lingered behind. “I didn’t think 
your husband would stand up to us,” he said slowly. 
“The man I heard about is a bully, a liar, and a 
coward. You’ve got pluck, Major.” 

Hal tried to speak. Turned his back, walked to 
the window. 

And now those grey eyes were upon her, gravely 
appraising. “I want to think this over. May I come 
around in the morning?” His voice was gentle. 

She didn’t need his pity. Never wanted to see him 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


176 

again. She held her head high, gave him look for 
look. “You may not.” 

“I’ll be here at nine,” he said steadily. 

Her fingers plucked at her white skirt, crumpling 
it. If he would only go. Leave them alone. 

He went, softly closing the door. 

The little room seemed full of faces, hating faces, 
mocking faces. Everyone against them. No sound 
from Hal. They must cling close together. 

With a sob, she flew to him—“My dear—my 
dear!” 

How old he looked in the waning light! Mottled 
of cheek and grey about the mouth. He sank into a 
chair. “Just my hellish luck!” 

She touched his hair, his poor grizzled hair, his 
damp forehead. A passion of tenderness welled up 
within. He grasped her hand in his big moist one. 

She tried to comfort—“Never mind, dear. We 
won’t let them.” 

He sprang up with a sudden strong movement. 
“Come on, Nita.” He strode to the door. 

Where was he going? What did he mean to do? 
Better stay here until they had all gone. She reached 
him swiftly. “Hal, what are you- T' 

“I’m host in my own house,” he said. “Coming, 
old girl?” 

He meant to face those people! She couldn’t go 
like this. Wait a moment, only a moment. Beat 
back the tears, smooth her hair, her skirt. A deep 
breath. “Coming,” she said. 



BRASSINGTON HALL 


177 


The blue room was empty. But from the hall came 
a rustle of people. Funny to watch their sidelong 
embarrassed glances as they tried to slip out. But 
Hal blocked their way. 

She stood there beside him in the big door, her lips 
lifted in the old trained smile. They had to pass 
him, had to stop when he spoke to them. 

“Good-bye—good-bye.” “So kind of you to have 
come.” “McDonald plays to-morrow.” Hal’s voice 
deep and throaty. Her own voice unfamiliar. 

From the stairway high up in the shadows the 
portrait of Sir Philip Brassington gently mocked. 
Life was a game indeed. 

“Good-bye—good-bye.” Her lips ached as she 
held to her little smile. Her neck seemed to stretch, 
to grow longer as she held up her head. Tall as Hal. 
Shoulder to shoulder. 

3 

Someone had to see Jerry Hawkes. If Hal 
wouldn’t- 

He wouldn’t. His fine defiance had not lasted 
through the interminable night. Poor old Hal, he 
had one of his mean headaches. He was like a sick 
creature seeking cover for a while. Snarling and 
savage at those who had wounded him. Didn’t 
want to see anyone. Wanted to be left alone. 

Better leave him alone until he took hold again. 
She too was sick—sick at heart, but the Hawkes man 



178 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

shouldn’t know it. Oh, he would be sorry for what 
he had done before she finished with him! 

She waited in the library. Among those high dark 
bookshelves under the lowering gaze of Colonel 
Welsh, she was keyed to a vivid performance. But, 
oh, how old she had felt at dawn with Hal lying 
there beside her, unwieldy in sleep, uneasily breath¬ 
ing! 

From her post at the window she stared out over 
the shining country which had the swept, dusted look 
of any well ordered house early in the morning. 
Lansmere Abbey on its hill rose up grimly. You 
couldn’t destroy a symbol like that as you could a 
Nita or a Hal. The stuff of their life was shabby 
—darned, patched and stained. Just because they 
had stopped by the roadside to wash their threadbare 
garments ; had turned them inside out, tricked them 
into shape with a pin, a stitch, they had thought 
themselves decently clothed for the end of the jour¬ 
ney. But the stuff was the same, and not good 
enough, she supposed, to rub up against the Hawkes 
and the Lansmeres of this world. 

Was there any use in trying? 

A knock on the door. Yes, he would be on time. 

“Come in.” She was ready with the hard clever 
little smile of a woman for whom life is a twisted 
comedy that she can play. 

He stood in the doorway, a quiet grey figure, his 
hair palely gleaming. 

Should she offer him her hand? His long arms 


BRASSINGTON HALL 


179 

swung loosely at his sides. Didn’t want to shake 
hands with her. Oh, well! Her voice sounded hard 
and brisk. “Now, Mr. Hawkes, I’m sure you realise 
that you can’t-” 

He came forward, his hand out. Didn’t say a 
word, only looked at her. Jerry Hawkes of Illinois 
looking straight at Nita Moffett of Connecticut. 

She took his hand. Then suddenly— “It’s true, 
of course,” she said. “Hal and I have had a rotten 
hard life.” After a pause, she said. “That time in 
Florence was only one of many others. You know 
that.” Her voice seemed to come from someone 
else. 

“Yes, I know it.” And it was as if he fingered 
shabby stuff without tearing it, knowing that the 
quality had once been good. 

Well, it was a relief after all. You couldn’t hide 
anything from a man with eyes like that. Let him do 
what he wished. The game was up. Her gesture 
told him as much. She moved to the window and 
drooped there in the sunlight. The shapely world 
outside glittered with a green that hurt her eyes. A 
few players straggled in sight. Bitterness mounted 
acrid on her tongue. What a fool she’d been to 
give herself away, to give Hal away! She whirled 
around with a passionate fling of her head. 

“Can’t a man ever get up when he’s down? Even 
if he has done wrong in the past, is that a reason for 
hounding him when he’s trying so hard—!” Tears 
in her eyes smarted. 



i8o 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


He was coming toward her. Shame that he should 
see her weak and beaten. She grew bright and hot 
—a fire kindled to hold him off. But he drew close. 
It was not the face of an enemy. 

“I believe in fair play,” he said. 

Then there was a chance! If he believed in fair 
play—all she asked for. Of what use pride before 
those keen eyes, that steady mouth. Tell him— 
make him understand. “You’ve always had a home. 
You’ve always been safe. This is the first time we’ve 
had a home in years and years. And Hal cares— 
can’t you see that he cares? Look—!” her gesture 
swept outward over the land. “That’s Hal. He 

planned it all. He put it over. Until you came-” 

“If you can convince me—” he began. 

“Convince you!” Her laugh broke short, bitter. 
“If you had any idea what our life has been all these 
years, you wouldn’t need any convincing. Never a 
place we could call our own, never a penny we could 

count on. Oh, it was all our fault if you will-” 

“Not yours,” he rapped out. 

Trying to put it all on Hal, was he? There was 
your gallant man. But he hadn’t thought of her 
yesterday. “Our fault,” she repeated. “You can’t 
separate us. And understand this, please, Mr. 
Hawkes—” Under taut light brows her eyes nar¬ 
rowed. “Hal may have done lots of things he 
shouldn’t. But he’s never hurt anyone as you’ve 
hurt him. Knocking about takes the edge off a man. 




BRASSINGTON HALL 


181 


He’s old, Hal is, and tired. He’s had enough of it. 
That’s why when you-” 

She had moved him. His expression lifted like a 
steel curtain for a softer play of feature. “What 
can I do?” he asked abruptly. 

Her answer was ready. “You can make Lansmere 
hush up yesterday’s scandal. You can promise him 
your backing with things as they are. If you and 
he stand behind Hal-” 

“I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Brassington-Welsh.” 

She had heard men use that tone before—the crisp 
note that went with mahogany desks and secretaries. 
Follow his mood. No more emotion. She nodded, 
serious, businesslike. 

“There’s a hard, practical streak in me.” He 
turned to pace up and down as if he were dictating. 
“I’ve worked all my life until I was forty-eight. I’m 
forty-nine now.” 

“Hal’s fifty-two,” she softly interrupted. 

“My father gave me a chance when I was a boy, 
and I took it.” He clipped his words short. “It’s 
very difficult for me to have any sympathy for men 
who have never done an honest stroke of work. 
Understand?” 

Yes, she understood. 

“Now—” He came to a standstill before her. 
“A man who has lived on his wits for so many years 
forms habits not easily broken. His moral muscles 
—know what I mean ?—grow flabby. He may think 
he’s strong enough and fit enough to exercise honesty. 



182 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


But is he?” He shot the question at her. “How 
long will it last?” 

She met his probing grey eyes. “I had hoped to 
the end of our lives.” 

In silence they measured one another. “Your 
husband is treasurer,” he said at last, and the wiry 
voice hummed again as with messages passing over 
her head. “The organisation, its finances, depend 
on him. I’ve looked into what it costs to run a place 
like this. I know what your husband expects to get 
out of it. He may think it’s enough to live on. I 
doubt that. What would he do if he discovered that 
he had underestimated his profits?” 

“He would never—” she cried hotly. 

With a swift lift of his arm he pointed his long 
wiry forefinger at her. “You guarantee your hus¬ 
band?” 

“I do.” Out before she knew it, clear and ringing. 
But hidden deep within, something stirred uneasily. 

“Then I—” He broke off to listen, and her 
heart winging upwards seemed to drop as before a 
hunter’s gun. 

A noise at the door had swung him around. Hal’s 
bulk stood framed there a moment. Why did he 
have to come just now? 

He should never have shown himself this way to 
Jerry Hawkes. He was haggard, unshaven, glassy 
of eye. Behind him in the dark gallery she saw 
dimly the forms of two men. 

“Of all damned insolence!” He strode forward, 


BRASSINGTON HALL 


183 

ignoring the American who sauntered to the window. 
“Every cringin’ puppy we’ve been dealing with here 
has come down on us with bills.” 

He would spoil it all—everything she had worked 
for. He was overwrought, ungovernable. And 
Jerry Hawkes—she dared not look at him. The hot 
blood pounded in her head. Unpaid bills—unpaid 
bills. Did he have the money? Only last week they 
had run short. 

“As if it weren’t enough to have the butcher, the 
grocer, the servants—the old bloody lot of them 
plaguin’ the life out of me,” Hal was roaring. 
“Barry Gibbons here presents me with a bill for two 
hundred pounds’ worth of work on the club house. 
Wasn’t to have been handed in for another three 
months.” 

The man stood glumly in the doorway. “There’s 
been talk around and we want our money,” he 
mumbled. 

“You’ll get your money, damn you.” Hal wheeled 
on him. “But the next time we want any work done, 
we’ll go somewhere else.” 

“That’s all right, sir.” The other man peered 
over Barry’s shoulder. She knew them both to nod 
to. They had always been so courteous, so pleasant. 
But now- 

Her little smile riveted to her lips, she stepped for¬ 
ward. “Hal dear, can’t you settle later? Mr. 
Hawkes is-” 

For answer, he turned heavily to the safe in the 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


184 

wainscoting behind the desk. Knelt and fumbled 
with the combination. 

Hawkes turned from the window. She felt his 
cool eyes upon her. Make another effort. “Hal, 
I’m sure Mr. Gibbons will come back this afternoon. 
You’d better consult Lord Lansmere before-” 

“I’ll consult no one.” His shoulders were stub¬ 
bornly set. Above his collar, his neck flamed red 
and angry. “I’m goin’ to pay those blasted fools 
out of that money Lansmere and I drew last week 
for emergencies—two hundred and fifty pounds.” 

The safe swung open. He jerked at a small 
drawer. She moved to look over his shoulder, and 
Hawkes strolled nearer. 

Her heart stood still. The drawer was empty. 

“Where the devil?” Hal began nervously throw¬ 
ing papers on the floor. His hands shook. 

It was all right, of course. No one could have- 

He swayed forward, gaping at the safe, his face 
flabby and grey under red patches. Everything was 
out now, strewn on the floor. “I thought I had-” 

Why didn’t he get up and say something to these 
people? Face them. Explain. 

“Missing?” Hawkes stood steely beside her. The 
two men pressed nearer. 

“I can’t think—” Hal muttered. He scrambled 
to his feet, looking dazed. She wanted to go to him, 
but her feet were weighted as if with lead. There 
was a buzzing in her head. 

“This is a serious matter.” Jerry Hawkes cut 




BRASSINGTON HALL 185 

through the silence. “You say you put Club money 
in that safe, and now it’s gone?” 

She must do something—move, speak. “Hal, 
surely it’s there.” She slipped to her knees, hunted 
among papers, hunted in the safe. Nothing. The 
men watched her, dark, glowering. Drag herself 
up. Dust on her skirt. Brush it off. “Hal, are you 
sure you put it-?” 

“Hello, what’s up?” Eric Grey lounged in. He 
stopped short, seemed to click together, his blue eyes 
staring at the open safe, the scattered papers. “I 


Jerry Hawkes spoke sharply. “These men want 
to be paid for their work. There was two hundred 
and fifty pounds in that safe, and your treasurer 
can’t explain where it is.” 

“Oh, but I say—” The young man stepped back¬ 
ward as if he had been struck. 

Was Eric going to believe what Hawkes was 
believing, what they all—? She couldn’t stand it. 

As through a mist, she saw him turn on the men. 
Heard him— “Of all confounded nerve, your com¬ 
ing here and dunning us. You’ve known my father, 
Barry, for twenty years. You’re sure of your 
money.” 

“But, Mr. Grey—” Barry protested. 

Splendid the way the boy faced them. She would 
never forget it. You could tell how upset he was, 
but he didn’t flinch. 

His voice rose strained, youthful— “Shame on 




i86 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


you, Barry. And you, Harry Green. You’ll get 
your money and you know it. Now, will you please 
go ?” 

Only a Lansmere could have done it. They hesi¬ 
tated, glanced at one another, at Eric. Then they 
shuffled out. 

Why didn’t Hal assert himself? A crippling fear 
held her motionless. He was so happy-go-lucky. 
Suppose he had confused the accounts ! How had he 
paid their bills these last months? 

“Look here, Major,” Eric stepped suddenly up to 
him. “I came over to tell you how sorry I was that 
the Governor made such a bally mess of things, yes~ 
terday. Better he shouldn’t know of this now. The 
rotten money’ll turn up. I’ll see Barry again, my¬ 
self.” 

Well, they had one friend. She could hardly bear 
to look at them together—the boy flushed, agitated, 
Hal dark and heavy with that dazed stare in his eyes. 

But when Eric spoke to him, he straightened his 
shoulders. The old Hal coming back. 

“My boy—” he said, and could get no further. 

“Lord Lansmere must know of this at once.” It 
came straight and pitiless from Jerry Hawkes. “I 
presume you have nothing to conceal, Major?” 

“Of course not,” Hal whirled about, his thick eye¬ 
brows knotted in a scowl. 

“But I say,” Eric protested. “You know the Gov¬ 
ernor, Mr. Hawkes. He’ll make no end of a row. 
Why not give the Major a few days? I-” 



BRASSINGTON HALL 


187 

Hawkes didn’t even answer. He moved to the 
door, his face set and cold. No hope from him. 
After all that had passed between them, she would 
ask for no mercy. 

Eric gripped Hal’s hand. “I’ll do all I can, 
Major,” and he dashed out of the room after 
Hawkes. 

Hal sat heavily down on a chair by the desk. 

And the fear darted back, stabbing. She hardly 
dared move or breathe now that they were alone— 
alone with Colonel Welsh and Angela Brassington 
looking down; alone with the June light streaming 
in, falling on the scattered papers, the open safe, on 
Hal’s thick grizzled hair. 

She must know the truth. She went with slow 
leaden steps over to him. The touch of her hand 
on his shoulder, the feel of the tweeded stuff gave 
her strength. 

‘‘Hal, look at me.” 

He raised his head, and she saw his poor old face 
so deeply lined, his forlorn bloodshot eyes. Even if 
he had—even if he had- 

She whispered—“Hal, did you?” 

“No, Nita.” His voice sounded dreary. “But 
it’s all the same. They won’t believe me.” 

How could she ever have doubted ? Standing over 
him, she drew his head close to her breast. His 
forehead was wet. She bent to kiss it. 

Someone had taken the monev. The servants? 



i88 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Impossible. Only Hal and Lansmere knew the com¬ 
bination of the safe. 

It came in a flash. 

“Hal, Lansmere took that money.” 

“Nital” Hal sprang to his feet. “You’re crazy I 
Lansmere take his own money? Lansmere!” 

“Listen, Hal, yesterday when he went off, he said 
he’d force you to leave, didn’t he? He knew the 
combination of the safe, didn’t he?” Her voice rose 
shrill with excitement. 

“Yes, but—I won’t believe it.” Hal sounded his 
old vigorous note. Defending the Lansmere name, 
the county, England. 

“He did it,” she cried. “It’s a plant. Don’t for¬ 
get he said you deserved to be in prison. Don’t 
forget that he thinks he can’t afford to lose Hawkes. 
And Hawkes wanted you out. Can’t you under¬ 
stand?” She clutched his arm. “It was the one 
way to drive you out. Something definite. You 
could have held your ground otherwise-” 

Hal stood as if she had struck him. Then, “Oh, 
Lord,” he groaned. “If it’s so, we’re done for.” 
She hadn’t realised that. Lansmere meant them to 
escape—run away. Yes, he would want them out 
of the way. Disgrace. Ruin. 

She followed Hal to the window. His arm went 
around her, crushed her close. 

The telephone. Its sharp ring shattered the 
silence. Hal didn’t move. She would go. 

Eric on the wire. His voice was almost unrecog- 



BRASSINGTON HALL 189 

nisable. Poor boy, he had done all he could. He 
shouldn’t take it so hard. 

“The Governor’s coming over with Hawkes. 
Don’t see him before I get there. I must see you 
first.” Abruptly, he rang off. 

Could it be possible that he knew what his father 
had done? And was he perhaps coming over to stand 
by them? He would never dare. Too afraid of his 
father. Better not give Hal any hope. 

“It was Eric. He’s coming over.” 

Hal stood where she had left him. She sat down 
in the chair beside the desk to wait. 

4 

He must have run across the fields. His shirt was 
open at the throat, his hair damp. Standing on the 
threshold of the library, he breathed a moment in 
short, gasping breaths. 

She rose with a little cry. “Mr. Grey-!” 

Hal turned slowly from the window, hastened 
forward. “My dear boy!” 

“They’ll be here any moment. They stopped to 
see Barry. I did my best-” 

“My dear boy,” Hal said again. 

“I came to tell you.” He spoke jerkily as if there 
were not much time. “It’s my fault, Major. You 
left the safe open day before yesterday. I—bor¬ 
rowed the money. I thought you wouldn’t need it 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


190 

for several months. Barry’s bill wasn’t to be sent 
in-” 

Silence that rocked about her as if they were all 
huddled in a rudderless boat. Then the young voice 
going on and on. A debt of honour in London. 
Couldn’t wait. No one would lend him a penny. 
Some money coming to him next month from a small 
inheritance. Meant to pay back then. 

She had lived through this before somewhere, 
somehow. She knew it as one remembers the turn 
of a road over which, ages ago, one has travelled. 
She watched the light strike across the room pick¬ 
ing out the gilt letters of books. 

Hal made a choking sound in his throat. 

“I tried to borrow from Hawkes on our way 
home. I was desperate. No use though. If only 
I could have got the Governor to hold off from 
you until I could-” 

Eric, their young friend, gay, debonair Eric with 
his face twisted pitifully telling them these things! 

She moved close to Hal. Linked her arm in his. 

And still the young voice went on. “I couldn’t 
stand by and let you take the blame, Major. Really 
too rotten. But isn’t there anything we can do? 
Can’t you think of anything? The Governor will 
never forgive. He’s that sort.” His hand went to 
his eyes. “I’m done for.” 

That was what Hal had said. Done for—-done 
for. Eric didn’t know what that meant. 




BRASSINGTON HALL 


191 

“I say, Eric—I say—” Hal’s voice, strange, 
throaty. 

“Can’t you think of anything? My God, Major, 
I’ve been a fool. Thrown my life away for two 
hundred and fifty pounds.” 

“But surely he won’t—” She heard her own voice 
trying to console. 

His laugh was worse than tears. “Won’t he, 
though? I got into a scrape last winter. He let 
me off, but he said then that it was the last time. 
Not a chance. Oh, well, I deserve it.” He turned 
aside with an effort at control. 

Silence again. She felt Hal cleaving to her as if 
she had passed into him and he into her. Years 
drifted by—the years they had lived. Between them 
something stirred trying to get up, something that 
had lain in the dark for a long, long while and 
grown weak. It fluttered between them. She 
pressed his arm more tightly. Ah, but it hurt, this 
strange thing lifting its cramped wings. It had 
claws that dug deep into the heart as it poised for 
flight. 

Hal stretched out his hand. She saw it large, 
heavy, resting there on the boy’s shoulder. 

It was hard for Hal to talk. He sounded rusty, 
like very old machinery set in motion. “You’ve got 
the right stuff in you, Eric. Damn decent of you. 
Acted like a gentleman. Tradition, Eric. We slip 
up on it sometimes. But it counts—it counts—” 


192 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

For a second he glanced at the portrait of his 
father. 

Steady, Hal. The thing is too big. Be careful— 
careful. 

“It’s up to one of us.” His voice was gruff. 

Eric nodded. 

“Well, I haven’t much to say for myself.” He 
seemed to lift each word with an enormous effort 
from a secret hiding place. She went with him down 
to that secret place and up again. 

He said, “I’m a pretty tattered old flag, my boy. 
Been through a lot. I’m not proud of it. No, my 
life is nothing to be proud of. What there is left 
of it—well, there’s Nita; it’s for her to say.” 

His arm trembled under her touch. For her to 
say! Their whole life,—what was left of it. Rotten 
mess. Rotten. Look at the boy. He hasn’t under¬ 
stood. Hal was like that once. The pity of it! 
She glanced toward the window. Bright out there— 
roses, papers on the table fluttered in a breeze. She 
lifted her head to look at Hal. The frail thing that 
had risen between them peered startled from his 
eyes. 

What if they fought on here with Lansmere 
broken, the boy thrown out? Never be the same 
again. Never. Eric was weak and the world would 
take him and grind him to tatters. Enough debris 
in the world already. 

The tap of a stick sounded in the gallery. Then 
Lansmere’s voice. Eric gave a little gasp. 


BRASSINGTON HALL 


193 

Once long ago she had seen a picture of a boy, 
his back against a wall facing a firing line. Eric 
looked like that. And he had been decent. He 
might have- 

“Well, old girl?” from Hal. 

It was for her to decide. Quickly then—“Eric, 
you must leave this to us. For the sake of what 
Hal has suffered—only remember-” 

“Nita!” All Hal could say. It was all there. 
Smile up at him—a twisted little smile. 

The door opened. Lansmere stamped in Be¬ 
hind him came Jerry Hawkes. 

Eric hadn’t understood. He moved jerkily for¬ 
ward. She caught his arm. “Keep still.” And 
she looked up to meet the American’s keen grey 
eyes. 

“What’s this I hear?” Lansmere spoke harshly. 
“Where’s that money?” He advanced on Hal, 
fierce as a sharp-beaked bird about to strike. 

Hal drew himself up. “I don’t know where the 
money is.” 

“Come—come, I can’t believe it. Of course you 
know,” Lansmere fumed. “Who else knows if you 
don’t?” 

“I haven’t the money.” Hal faced him firm, 
erect. “I understand how serious this is. You’ve 
won, Lord Lansmere. I resign. I—my wife and I 
will leave-” 

“No, you won’t.” A gouty old man beside him¬ 
self with rage. “I’ll have you arrested, sir.” 





THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


194 

Young Grey stepped forward, deathy pale. She 
put out her hand again and drew him back. His 
father wasn’t looking at him. 

She whispered—“Eric, you must for my sake.” 
There was that in her eyes and voice that held him 
quiet. 

Hal at the desk was gathering up papers, sorting 
them. “I’ll hand over my reports-” 

“May I speak to you a moment?” Hawkes stood 
at her elbow. 

She moved listlessly with him to the window. 
Eric sank into a chair, covered his face with his 
hands. Well, he had his chance. 

Hawkes bent nearer, sunlight on his hair. “I 
won’t allow it. I won’t have you sacrificed. Your 
husband didn’t take that money.” 

So he knew. She was glad that he knew. She 
turned her head away. “What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean.” His voice was urgent. 
“I’m not blind. And the young fool tried to borrow 
two hundred pounds from me. I suspected then, 
but I wasn’t sure until I saw you three together.” 

Behind her, Lansmere violently threatened. She 
heard the shuffling of papers. 

“You mustn’t interfere, Mr. Hawkes.” She looked 
into the face of a friend, of a man whom she might 
have met long, long ago. 

“You’re going to take the blame?” 

A word, and in spite of Hal, of Eric, he would— 
No, too late. Play fair—must play fair. “Yes,” 



BRASSINGTON HALL 


195 

she said simply. “We couldn’t live on here anyway. 
Not now—and the boy is worth saving. If he’d been 
Hal—you understand?” 

She heard Hal— “Here are the cheque books. 
Now you’d better-” 

Eric went softly out of the room. 

It seemed as if many moments passed. Then Jerry 
Hawkes said—“God bless you!” 

And it was as if someone very dear to her had 
taken her to the gates of a station and sped her on a 
long, perilous journey with something to remember, 
something to cherish forever and ever. 

No time for emotion. Hawkes was speaking 
again crisply, rapidly. “I’ll take on the house and 
give your husband a cheque, of course, for the re¬ 
maining months he has paid on his lease. Is there 
anything else?” 

“Hal will want to pay whatever bills he owes 
here—out of that cheque.” 

He knew what she meant. He would see that 
Hal did pay. But suppose Lansmere had them 
arrested! “You won’t let Lord Lansmere-?” 

“Count on me.” 

One other thing. She gazed out at the bright 
country for the last time. “If you could—lend Eric 
the money and leave him in this room alone—when 
we’re gone. He’ll pay you back next month.” 

“Count on me,” he said again. His hand gripped 
hers. Then she turned away. 

Lansmere bent muttering over the desk. Hal 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


196 

stood quietly by. Strange that he should be stand¬ 
ing under his father’s portrait. 

She. went out softly without a word to him. He 
was safe with Jerry Hawkes. 

Eric waited for her in the dusk of the gallery. 
His young face pitifully appealed. “I despise my¬ 
self-” 

Hal young—Hal being saved. And she was 
doing this. 

He took her hand, raised it reverently to his lips. 
“I shall never forget. My whole life-” 

“I know.” She started up the stairs, and looked 
back to smile down on him. He stood as a young 
traveller at the cross-roads. She feared nothing for 
him. But she and Hal—at the cross-roads—ah, 
that was another question. 

From the shadowy landing, Sir Philip gently 
mocked. There was a gallant sadness, a shared 
knowledge in his mocking. She felt all the Brass- 
ingtons ghostly behind him. Hal’s heritage that 
he was giving over. No, not giving over. 

She could hear the voices of the men in the library. 
Hawkes was taking charge. Presently Hal would 
come to her, and then they would set forth together. 

Where? No matter. 

Very slowly, she turned and went on up the stairs 
to pack. 




CHAPTER VI 


SOMETHING CHEAP 

I 

Y OU couldn’t live indefinitely on the spirit of 
high sacrifice. They had played, and chosen 
to lose. They would have lost anyway. Was 
that a consolation? She thought of the portrait of 
Sir Philip; of his gentle mocking smile. Just so 
would he have gone forth. But with feather and 
sword. Hal wore his feather and sword only in the 
presence of an audience. He was shorn of glory 
in private. He had had his moment, and was stricken 
with what he called his luck—his damn bad luck. 
But it went deeper than that; it went too deep. 
He had been pierced to the heart of him, touched 
in the heart of him. 

It was too much—really too much. You couldn’t 
ever feel the same after it. She couldn’t. When 
you had what you most wanted and relinquished it 
because- 

No use being sorry. No use in even feeling that 
you had given the best in you when that best drove 
you out and on- 

On to what? Hal had suggested Vienna as being 
197 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


198 

cheap, and God knows they needed something cheap. 
Vienna had another advantage. No one would know 
them there—at first. 

But getting there was a nightmare. Hal had 
insisted on going by boat to Ostend. For two 
days he had gambled—winning, losing, winning 
enough to carry them on. 

Then Berlin, heavy, indigestible, with its heavy 
hating people, its police hounding strangers. Hal 
getting into daily rages until you would have thought 
the entire war was fought and won by Major Brass- 
ington-Welsh. He almost convinced himself that 
he had fought. She dreaded going out with him 
on the streets. He stalked along with such fierce 
glares. Once they were nearly arrested because of a 
scene he had made in a restaurant. 

The next day they had left for Vienna. All this 
time Hal had declared he was going straight. He 
was going, so far as she could see, nowhere at all 
except perhaps to seed. It was hardly enough to say 
that you meant to earn an honourable living because, 
after all, Brassington blood meant something, by 
Jove. Noblesse oblige ! It hadn’t obliged him yet 
to do more than talk. He did that beautifully. But 
unless he did more than that soon, they had better 
lay themselves down on the nearest dust heap. 
There were plenty in Vienna. 

Too bad that he had chosen such a depressing 
town in which to be virtuous, and had spent down 
to their last pound while he waited for something 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


199 

worthy of him to turn up. Nothing had turned up, 
of course, but bills and a final warning from the 
manager of the Bristol Hotel. Meanwhile they were 
lucky to have found a mean little flat, a mean roof 
over their heads. 

Her temper was tried to the edge. Hal wasn’t 
the only one who had sacrificed himself for Eric 
Grey. You would have thought he was. 

This afternoon she was feeling that she couldn’t 
bear it much longer. Hal had a visitor. What did 
anyone want with Hal? She leaned against the 
imitation tiled wall of the tiny kitchen trying to 
hear what they were saying in the next room. But 
their lowered voices reached her only as a muffled 
sound. 

She had been washing the luncheon dishes when 
the bell rang and Hal, unshaven, in dressing gown 
and slippers, had slouched to the door. Her own 
appearance was nothing to boast of. She had let 
herself run down since they came to this flat. Her 
blue silk kimono, loosely pinned, gaped over a limp 
black satin petticoat. She wore a pair of tarnished 
silver evening slippers from which she had ripped 
the buckles. Her hair needed waving. And her 
hand, in the mechanical wielding of a cigarette, 
wafted under her disgusted nostrils, a smell of 
grease and soap suds. 

No use moping any longer. She took up the 
stringy rag with a sigh. How she hated it all; hated 
this filthy kitchen with its reek of sausage and sharp 


200 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


young Heurigen wine; hated the scum formed over 
the dish pan, the charred matches on the scorched 
oil cloth, the water trickling from wet plates onto 
the dirty floor. 

She kicked an empty whiskey bottle thrust between 
the sink and small cupboard. It was the last bottle 
Hal was likely to see, with whiskey at ninety thou¬ 
sand kronen. Oh, well, he could still wheedle a 
drink from a chance acquaintance at Anna’s Bar. 
And then there was Mrs. Wilbur Pratt at the Bristol 
with her cocktails and dinners. That’s what he had 
come to. 

Only one clean dish cloth. Better wipe the glasses 
first. Flecks of lint clung to their thick sides. She 
thought of the polished crystal of Brassington Hall 
and closed her eyes to see again that bright secure 
land. 

Suffocating in here. She opened the door which 
she had closed as the stranger passed by. The door 
of the sitting room was ajar. 

Hal’s voice, lacking the old hearty note, rumbled 
through the hall. “Speak more plainly, Mr. Wert- 
ner. You say the Austrian government held back a 
few of the pictures claimed by the Italians after the 
war, and that these pictures are now being secretly 
sold? What’s that got to do with your picture?” 

“It is a good story, nicht wahr?” drifted from the 
stranger. “A story to interest a rich American lady. 
Is she not in our poor city with her dollars to pick up 


SOMETHING CHEAP 201 

bargains? And does her husband not collect art 
treasures?” 

Hal sounded impatient. “Yes, but this picture of 
yours?” 

“I have a friend, a genius,” came dreamily from 
this Mr. Wertner. “Before the war he worked 
often in the museum. Even experts could not tell 
the difference between his copies and the originals. 
It is very sad. He is starving now.” A brief pause 
and then in a brisker tone—“The picture of which 
I speak is one of his finest.” 

“And you want me to persuade Mrs. Pratt that it 
belongs to the Austrian government?” Hal’s voice 
deeper, as if he were thinking it over. 

“Quite so,” pleasantly admitted this new friend 
of his. “But if you prefer, you have only to intro¬ 
duce me to the lady as a secret official agent for the 
sale of these pictures. For such an introduction 
alone, I shall give you—shall we say in your lan¬ 
guage seventy-five pounds?” 

So this was the kind of nice sociable little time 
they were having! Back to his old tricks. Worn 
stuff that has been to the cleaners, stuff in which 
the old spots and stains reappear with wear. Sev¬ 
enty-five pounds for an introduction to that silly 
selfish Pratt woman. Seventy-five pounds. Enough 
for a new start somewhere else. She flung her 
cigarette to the floor, crunched it flat with her heel. 

They were talking again. She crept into the dark 


202 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


narrow hall, hugging her kimono about her. Peered 
into the little room. 

“And if you don’t come in at all? If I sell your 
damn copy for you?” Hal stood heavy and dark 
amongst the clutter of light maple furniture. His 
face was congested, a red and black blob in the hot 
July light which beat through lace curtains and fell 
on the shiny spots of his black corded silk dressing 
gown. 

“We go halves,” softly answered the blond young 
man. As he sat there facing Hal, he was like a 
recently polished coin fallen in a dingy place. He 
shone and tempted, his bright blue eyes roving from 
the dead spinach green of the wall, with its crawly 
red pattern, to a glass of stale water, and an aspirin 
tube on the table. 

She shrank back in the shadows of the hall. A 
cracked mirror hung dimly at one end of it. She 
seemed to see reflected there a tall military figure, 
ruddy of cheek, sparkling of eye—the old Major 
Brassington-Welsh handling dubious stuff with the 
flourish of an expert selling rare material. And 
now here was this man offering— Oh, what would 
become of them either way? 

There was silence again between the two men. 
She moved closer to the door. You could tell that 
Hal was nervous. He jerked out of his pocket the 
old blackened pipe he had smoked at Brassington 
Hall. Fingered it, rammed it back in his pocket. 
Plucked at his long droopy moustache, turning this 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


203 


way and that like a man who seeks to escape from 
something within, something nibbling and galling. 

Mr. Wertner sat now with his bland profile turned 
toward her. He had lit a cigarette and was thought¬ 
fully studying a dusty bunch of artificial flowers in a 
liverish coloured vase—an ornament she particularly 
detested. It was he who spoke first. “We do busi¬ 
ness, Herr Ob erst?” 

Should she walk into the room and interrupt this 
amiable conversation? Or call Hal out and tell 
him—tell him what? Didn’t know herself what she 
wanted, weak contemptible creature that she was. 

Hal had fidgeted himself out of her range. Why 
didn’t he answer? 

Suddenly he sailed into view. “My dear fellow, 
I’d like awfully to oblige you, but really, you know— 
I don’t do that sort of thing.” 

It was his manner of saying it, of doing it—that 
pompous voice, a shade patronising, and the majestic 
way he stood draped in his dressing gown as if 
facing a large and appreciative audience. He was 
being noble. She knew that expression. He put it 
on lately whenever she tried to shame him into get¬ 
ting a job. 

Wertner had risen. Easy to see that he hadn’t 
expected such an answer. “But I thought— Suppos¬ 
ing we say one hundred pounds.” 

Hal considered this handsome offer from unassail¬ 
able heights. Then he wagged his head with a virtu¬ 
ous droop of an eyelid. 


204 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Well, she might have spared her poor conscience 
its emotions. Hal’s triumphant air of goodness was 
funny. She wanted to laugh. Wanted to throw 
back her head and let out the rusty jangling laughter 
that choked in her throat. 

Wertner drew out his wallet and from it several 
bills—crisp solid English bills. “One hundred 
pounds,” he murmured. 

She caught her breath. Enough to buy bales of 
kronen. One hundred pounds, almost five hundred 
dollars, and they had about ten dollars left in the 
world. 

Hal made a clicking noise, his tongue against his 
teeth, something like a father chiding a naughty 
small boy. “I wouldn’t touch it,” he said, as if Wert¬ 
ner had offered to give him the pest. “Besides,” he 
thrust out his chest and flipped up the end of his 
moustache, “I’m expecting something big to turn up 
any day now.” 

So that was that. Wertner shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders, bowed stiffly. Good gracious, he mustn’t find 
her here. “Allow me—my card in case—” she heard 
him say as she fled back to the kitchen. 

She closed the door. Well, she was glad, of 
course. Hal had his own magnificent way of han¬ 
dling situations. It was only when there were no 
situations to handle that his glow waned to a mere 
inefficient flicker. Meanwhile, here she was back 
again in her kitchen among sour smells and busy 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


2 oy 

flies with those ten dollars between themselves and 
the street. 

Thank Heaven, the Wertner man was going at 
last. She heard his step and Hal’s heavier tramp 
down the hall. Hal’s recovered round tones seemed 
to blow his guest out. In a better temper than he 
was at lunch. 

“Nita—I say Neetah, where are you?” 

He knew perfectly well where she was. 

She found him basking in the light of his virtue 
as he padded to and fro between the sitting room 
and the adjoining hole they called the bedroom. 

He pranced up to her bursting with his news. 
“I’ve had the most unhingin’ time-” 

“I know, I was in the hall.” Cruel of her to cut 
his effect. 

“The devil you were.” He descended from his 
superior heights to eye her suspiciously. Then soared 
again. 

Extraordinary how easy it was to be decent once 
you got started, said he. A year ago he wouldn’t 
have hesitated. Why, the Pratt woman had asked 
him only the other day what she could bring back 
to her husband for a birthday present to prove to 
him what wonderful things one could pick up here. 
She’d swallow whole that story about the Austrian 
government. “But I couldn’t do it,” he ended, and 
with a sidelong glance he strolled over to a small 
mirror which surmounted a hideous art-nouveau 
desk. “I thought of you, old girl, and I-” 




206 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“Leave me out of it,” slipped from her sharply. 
Foolish to feel so annoyed because he expected her 
to pat him on the back. 

He swung about, a ridiculous injured expression 
clouding him over—“Good Lord, Nita, you surely 
don’t mean you wish I’d gone into the thing?” 

“Certainly not,” she snapped. A mean little 
nagging spirit prodded her on. She sat down by 
the table. Stray crumbs on the tablecloth. The 
usual corpses in the grimy ash tray. Wertner must 
think they lived like pigs. So they did. 

“I don’t understand you, Nita.” His beautiful 
mood was wearing off. 

She leaned her elbows on the table, cupped her 
chin in her hands, and head tilted, light eyebrows 
raised, she looked at him with her bitter green eyes. 

He scowled at the ugly red and green wall paper, 
his hands dug deep in his pockets dragging them out 
of shape. 

“Well—what now?” Her voice pricked like a 
thin teasing weapon. 

“What d’you mean?” he muttered. 

Suddenly she was on her feet facing him, cold, 
hard, and hating. “How long is this going to last?” 
She spoke harshly. “Until we’re thrown out of 
here, I suppose, onto the streets of Vienna to starve 
with the other poor wretches in this ghastly town. 
D’you really think you’ve done enough in resisting 
one hundred pounds worth of temptation?” 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


207 


“If you’re going to begin all over again—” He 
scowled at her down his long nose. 

“Telling you that you ought to be ashamed of 
yourself?” she took up passionately. “Yes, I am. 
You haven’t a spark of pride in you. You’re nothing 
but a-” 

“I’m sick of hearing you complain.” He turned 
his back on her, tramped to the window and stood 
thrumming on the pane. 

Oh, but he’d have to listen. She followed him, 
clutching at his arm. 

“Damn it all, let go of me, Nita.” 

“What have you done to get us out of this?” 
Her voice rose shrilly. “The same old thing. Talk 
—talk—talk. Nothing but talk.” 

“For God’s sake, what d’you want me to do?” 
In the pitiless light you could see how old he’d grown 
even in the past month. 

“What do other people do who have no incomes?” 
she retorted. “They work. That’s what they do.” 

He plunged past her, pushing her aside. His 
laugh was bitter to hear. “Work! How? Where? 
With Vienna on the edge of God knows what, with 
money not worth the paper it’s printed on, with 
unrest, unemployment everywhere? And you tell 
me to work. Perhaps,” he said, savagely tugging at 
his moustache, “you’re thinking of the Reparations 
Committee, or what about an English bank? D’ you 
suppose any of my soft-hearted compatriots would 
give me a job once they looked me up?” 



208 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Again that laugh. He trod heavily to the bed¬ 
room door. Turned with his hand on the knob. 
“If it were Paris now or New York, or even one of 
those bloody malarial islands, I might wangle it. 
But Vienna—oh, hell!” The door opened. Slammed. 

Her legs crumbled under her. She sank into a 
chair. Dizzy. Sorry for herself. Sorry they 
couldn’t have made a finer show, put up a braver 
fight. 

She huddled there in the chair by the desk. Her 
mother’s last letter lay open on a torn blotter. 
Her poor mother. Worried to think of them in 
Vienna. Not understanding why they had left 
Brassington Hall. From where would she mail her 
next letter to Stamford? Most likely she wouldn’t 
write. Yes, that might be kinder in the end. Let 
her mother think her dead. 

She glanced up at the touch of a hand on her 
shoulder. Hal was standing over her dressed in 
his blue serge. And she still in her sloppy kimono. 

“Sorry, old thing,” he mumbled. 

Through the open door, she could see the bedroom 
—everything flung about as if a cyclone had struck 
it. Never occurred to him that she would have to 
clear up the mess. Her heart hardened. She drew 
away from his hand. 

“Oh, all right.” He sounded offended. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m going,” he said, “to get a shave, and to beg, 
borrow or steal a drink. Any objections?” With 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


209 

that he stalked into the hall. Reappeared with his 
inevitable fedora cocked over a bushy brow. Stick 
in his hand. 

He glowered at her a moment. “If you think it’s 
so easy to get a job,” he suddenly blustered from the 
threshold, “go ahead and try.” 

So that was his answer. It swept her to her feet. 
She faced him squarely, head flung back, green eyes 
bright with scorn. 

“I will.” Her voice rang clear and final. 

He wavered restlessly, swinging his stick. “Don’t 
be a fool, Nita.” Then he turned abruptly on his 
heel, and was gone. 

She paced the room with short, nervous steps, a 
tarnished gold little woman on her mettle. 

She would—she would. Shame him. Show him 
what she could do. Oh, she wasn’t down yet. Life 
hadn’t beaten her. 


2 

Hal would be frantic when he heard. But he had 
goaded her into it. He had sat back stubbornly, 
scoffingly, while she trudged the streets of Vienna* 
peddling her poor little arts and graces. Where 
hadn’t she gone, what hadn’t she done that terrible 
week! Shops, offices, restaurants, dressmaking, hair¬ 
dressing establishments. She had tried them all. 
In and out, out of and in strange doors with the 
eternal gesture of bracing her shoulders, lifting her 


210 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

head to relax drearily when she found herself again 
on the street. Hostile streets that seemed to turn 
their back on her. Faces, distrustful, indifferent, 
pitying. Voices saying no. And then yesterday- 

She had meant to tell Hal in the morning after she 
had made the final arrangements with the Fischer 
girl. Now here they were in Mrs. Pratt’s salon at 
the rackety hour of cocktails. And she hadn’t told 
him. She was tempted to call out above the chatter 
and tinkle of ice—“Hal, I’m engaged from to-night 
on to entertain clients in a second-rate cabaret. 
Don’t you think I’ll be good at it, my dear?” 

Spare him that public shock. She could imagine 
the effect of such an announcement on these solid- 
jawed, shrewd-eyed Americans on their way home 
from Russia, from the Balkans. And how they 
would shudder, those smart birdlike women who 
fluttered light draperies in the dingy wainscoted 
room which Mrs. Pratt had sought to enliven with 
lace cushions, silver frames and a jumble of booty 
from Viennese shops. She could see their faces 
curling up like oysters, under a lemon. Could hear 
them. “What—a cabaret! My dear!” All very 
well to visit such places with one’s husband and 
friends. But for any decent woman to earn her 
living chatting and dancing with strange men—incon¬ 
ceivable. She quite agreed. 

Listen to them. Voices burry and drawly. Fat 
voices, thin voices. 

“What did you get this morning? I got thirty- 



SOMETHING CHEAP 


211 


one to the dollar. The porter told me—” “And, 
my dear, the whole suit, stuff and all only came to 
about five dollars. I must give you his address.” 
“I tell you, sir, we ought to-” 

Money—moneysthe exchange. All they thought 
about. 

She sat near the window, an empty glass at her 
elbow, a wry little smile painted in on her lips. She 
felt hidden, defiant in her droopy black hat, her 
black charmeuse gown. The nauseating smell of 
Viennese gasolene—an odour of skunk—sifted 
through the lace curtains. The Fischer girl sat once 
more beside her. Only yesterday they were stran¬ 
gers. Odd what life did to one. She, Nita, defeated, 
desperate, she who counted no woman her friend, 
turning for advice as she had done yesterday, to a 
stranger. But then there had been something in 
the girl’s expression—a sad wisdom akin to her own. 
A loneliness. 

She shifted her pose to smile at her new friend. 

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” said the girl softly. 

Yes, it was strange that they two had met. 
Strange, she supposed, that Miss Fischer had been 
led from a sheltered girlhood through the war, 
through ruin and the death of her father and heart¬ 
broken mother, through gallant attempts to find 
work, down, down to the Nachtingall, where nightly 
she sang and danced. And stranger still that Mrs. 
Brassington-Welsh should join her there. Oh, it 
was a droll world. 



212 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


From across the room, Mrs. Wilbur Pratt rattled 
her high clear talk at Hal, who, as usual, presided 
over the improvised bar. Making himself useful, 
and incidentally making away with an unconscionable 
quantity of Gordon gin and French vermouth. He 
could still be hearty enough, with a big frosted 
shaker in his keeping; could still beam and swagger, 
with that black cigar someone had given him, tilted 
from under his unconquered moustache. 

“I stuffed a satchel at the bank—such a nuisance 
their largest bill is only fifty thousand—and took it 
right over,” his hostess was saying. “You never 
saw such fur. Even if I have to pay duty, it’s 
cheaper-” 

Yes, she would always want to get expensive things 
a little cheaper than they were worth. At home she 
would employ cheap, clever little dressmakers, cheap 
little modistes, cheap little jewellers who could copy 
models. 

Hal had reluctantly set down his empty shaker 
while he waited for more ice. Groups drifted, 
screening him and his hostess, but Mrs. Pratt’s cool, 
thin tones carried. 

“They tell me all the best things were snapped up 
last winter. I think it’s too bad the fuss they make 
about our buying here. After all, we’re bringing in 
good dollars-” 

“I must go,” the Fischer girl said, but she made 


no move. 




SOMETHING CHEAP 


213 

“Have a cigarette first.” There were only three 
left in her case. 

Miss Fischer shook her head, but rose, inconspicu¬ 
ous in her simple tailor suit and small hat, and wove 
her way over to a box of Abdullahs on the centre 
table. Calmly she took up the box and returned. 
“Never smoke your own if you can help it,” she said. 

Mrs. Pratt’s voice sounded again. “I’m abso¬ 
lutely counting on you, Major, to help me find some¬ 
thing unusual for my husband. He’s so hard to 
please. I declare I’m at my wit’s end. Haven’t 
you a suggestion?” 

Hal, once more busy with his shaker, turned. She 
knew what was in his mind. She seemed to be peer¬ 
ing through an open door at the blond young man 
who shone and tempted. 

Mrs. Pratt stood out costly against the dark 
wainscoting. Platinum and diamonds. 

A woman like that deserved- 

From across the room she met Hal’s look, and 
felt for a moment alone with him. Framed in her 
black, she knew herself intensified, betrayed by eye 
and lip. 

Suddenly he tucked in his chin and thrust out his 
chest. The same noble gesture with which he had 
faced Wertner. 

“I haven’t really the foggiest notion what to 
suggest,” he said in a loud voice, and turned back 
to his shaker. 

So that was settled. Her cigarette had burned 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


214 

out. She laid it down on the silver ash tray beside 
her empty glass. 

Miss Fischer had again risen. “This time I must 
run. Will you come for me at ten o’clock? You 
have my address.” 

Her hand went out. She tried to smile. 

“You’ll get used to it. Flasheim knows me. He 
will see that you are not annoyed.” The wise grey 
eyes rested pleasantly upon her. 

Hal swaggered forward as, with a nod and a 
smile, Miss Fischer moved discreetly away among 
other departing guests. No putting it off any longer. 
She must tell him. Her throat went dry. The blood 
throbbed in her cheeks. 

“I say, Nita.” He stood ruddily planted, an eye 
cocked at her. “We’re stayin’ to dine with Mrs. 
Pratt. She’s going to take us to Sacher’s” 

She felt as if someone were pushing her down a 
steep hill. “We can’t to-night, Hal. We must go 
right away.” 

He started to argue. “But look here, old girl, 
I’ve promised. Damn it all, I’d like a decent meal 
once in a while.” 

“I mean it.” 

He followed her sulkily, tugging at his moustache. 
Pulled himself together to play the obedient husband 
to Mrs. Pratt’s voluble reproaches. 

“What’s the idea?” he grumbled, stalking beside 
her down the dark stairs, through the stuffy lobby 
of the old Bristol. 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


215 

She hurried to the street, silent, unseeing, sick 
with what she had to do. Bumped into a group of 
tourists who had stopped to stare across the broad 
Karntnerring. 

Hal grabbed her by the elbow. “Look where 
you’re going,” he said crossly. 

On the farther side of the Ring beyond the trees, 
a procession of men was marching without music. 
She saw them an indistinct mass moving sluggishly. 
Strikers. 

“I’m not very well. Do you mind if we walk a 
bit?” She spoke with difficulty. 

“Feeling seedy?” Hal’s voice had changed. He 
took her arm. He was suddenly strong and dark 
beside her. 

He cared then. She felt little and lost and wan¬ 
dering from the only shelter she knew. What would 
he do when she told him? 

“I’m all right.” She tried for the hardness of 
tone that would turn him from her. 

They stood a moment on the corner of Karntner 
Strasse, and Vienna like a stricken sister seemed to 
clasp her hand. Once so joyous, so brilliant, so 
triumphant. And now—cheapened, diminished, the 
beggar of the world. The long rows of shops 
stretched meaninglessly. Windows and windows 
gorged with things whose values were unintelligible. 

“For God’s sake, Nita!” She had started me¬ 
chanically to cross toward the Opera. He pulled 
her back as a motor dashed by. 


216 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Now they were alongside the gardens of the huge 
empty palace, and she hadn’t spoken. Hal had let 
go of her arm. She couldn’t have told him while 
he touched her. But why, after all, should she spare 
him? She glanced up. He strode ahead, close to 
the high iron railings of the gardens. His shoul¬ 
ders were hunched forward, his head lowered. He 
wielded his stick heavily. In the gathering dusk, 
his long profile seemed to sag, the colour drained 
from it. His moustache hung forlornly. And this 
was the man she had travelled with through the 
long years, the man she had lied for, the man to 
whom she had cleaved for better or worse. 

She drew closer. She opened her mouth to say, 
“Hal, you’ve failed me. And now I must do the 
only thing left for me to do. It’s beastly. But it’s 
all I’m good for.” 

She meant to say it. And other words came. 
They came from somewhere in ambush where they 
must have lain hidden and prepared. 

She said, “Hal, I’m going to support myself at 
last. Miss Fischer—you know the girl we met 
yesterday—has got me a place as night companion 
to a friend of hers, an old invalid lady.” 

His expression frightened her as he wheeled 
about, blocking her way. “When did you decide 
this?” His face in the dusk was set and stern. 

“This morning.” 

“What’s her name? Where does she live?” 

The lie worked within her, weaving a pattern. 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


217 


“You’ve no right to ask me, Hal.” Yes, that was 
the tone. “It’s my job and I won’t let you interfere. 
She doesn’t even know I’m married.” She waited a 
moment for him to say something. 

He fumbled in his pocket. Took out his cigarette 
case filled with Mrs. Pratt’s Abdullahs. His hand 
trembled as he lit a match. 

“It’s better than nothing, Hal,” she faltered. 
“After all, reading and talking English to an old 
lady who can’t sleep, isn’t so hard, is it?” Well, at 
least life with him had taught her to lie. Ah, but 
in shielding him, wasn’t she losing him? It came 
over her with sickening force. The secret would 
grow between them, thickening, putting forth creep¬ 
ers, prying them apart. Already she was planning 
to sneak out her clothes in a valise. Dress at Miss 
Fischer’s. 

“As you say, I have no right to stop you, no rights 
over you.” His voice was old and tired. 

The pain of it, sharp as a blade, cut through her. 
She went to him, laid a hand on his arm. They 
stood so a moment. Her face lifted, shone pale in 
the shadows. She must have been mad to think 
she could go through with this thing. Suppose she 
gave it up? Confessed herself beaten. Suppose she 
went back—to what? Nothing was changed. No, 
she had chosen her path. Must follow it now to 
the bitter end. 

“God, I’m low.” Hal flung away from her sud¬ 
denly, striding off into the shadows of the street. 


2l8 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


She ran after him, joined him and clutched his 
arm. 

There was nothing more to say. The secret 
wedged them apart. She clung the closer, trotting 
to keep up with his stride. And so they turned home¬ 
ward. And not a stone of the city knew them. Not 
a stone of the city cared. 

3 

She waltzed. In the arms of a stranger she was 
melancholy as tinsel at dawn. It was only midnight. 
Three hours more under the garish light which 
showed her up for what she was—a tired, tarnished 
gold little woman who couldn’t play this game. 

The Viennese waltz entered into her, haunting 
and frail. Yes, she was like that, forever aspiring, 
forever defeated. Her legs ached, her head ached, 
her lips ached with smiling, her very soul ached. 
But she waltzed. The violin sang to her—lost— 
lost—lost, faith lost, and love lost, and hope lost. 

Behind her closed eyelids pictures flashed. She 
saw the dingy apartment, saw herself kneeling be¬ 
side Hal’s old suitcase, staring at money she had 
found hidden there. A heap of kronen, almost two 
hundred dollars. Where had he got it? 

Her feet moved mechanically among other feet 
in the hot jumbled mass of rotating bodies; of 
shoulders, of faces advancing, receding. A confused 
screen against which she seemed to see Hal, moody, 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


219 


withdrawn, going his secret way in Vienna. Asking 
her no question. Telling her nothing. And now 
this money- 

Round and round, up and down the long narrow 
room lined with cramped boxes, gorged with big 
fat-necked men who wore rings, dark slippery men 
with tiny feet, women in large hats and earrings. 
Pretending to be young and gay and generous. And 
Hal imagined her safe in the house of a mythical 
old lady, reading, talking English through the long 
sleepless nights. Sometimes she thought he hated 
her for earning her own living. How, otherwise, 
could he leave her day by day to dangle after Mrs. 
Wilbur Pratt. Eating, drinking, smoking expensive 
cigars. Oh, she had seen him riding in Mrs. Pratt’s 
car, seen him sidling in and out of the Bristol, seen 
him once through the window of a leather shop. 
Perhaps this money- 

And she had stood a week of this to earn a few 
thousand miserable kronen a night! Enough to buy 
bread with. She had stood a week of insults, humili¬ 
ations, a week of Lili Fischer’s songs, of Mizzi’s 
crude dances, of Joanna and Max in their tango. 

There was Flasheim watching her with his piggish 
eyes stuck in their rolls of fat. She wasn’t playing 
up. They all knew it, even to the rouged old woman 
behind the bar, the headwaiter whom she had 
snubbed, and Zardi, the pock-marked Tzigane, who 
swayed under the boxes to the rhythm of his waltz. 

Must make an effort. She tilted her head to look 




220 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


up at the stranger. Her smile was like a showy 
little ornament with the clasps loosened. She wore 
it a moment under the flushed sticky face of her 

partner. That particular type of German- 

Faster and faster, whirling in a shrieking intense 
nightmare of crimson and black, of coloured daubs, 

of violins and bottles- 

Out of the mad arabesque, figures, shapes, again 
took their place. She was left standing alone. The 
beast to go off like that! Do as other girls did. 
Follow him to his table. A dab of powder on her 
nose, a swift touch to her shoulder straps, and now, 
Nita, sparkle, if you can, with the old radiance. 

She had learned to sit uninvited at tables. But 
the German’s stolid eyes stared past her at Lili, 
who, fresh and cool in her pink flounced dress, was 
drifting by. 

“Kommen Sie hier” And Lili came. One never 
refused. The waiter brought two glasses. 

How did Lili manage? How did she keep remote 
and cool as a stream flowing through ugly places? 
A matter of feeling, perhaps. She, Nita, felt herself 
a weary comedian who without her leading man could 
give but a sorry performance. Different in the old 
days, when, with Hal to boom the cue, she had 
played her clever sparkling part—at least in public. 

A little wine would do her good. She lifted her 
glass; put it down, her hand trembling. Where had 
she seen that man sitting alone in the corner, drink¬ 
ing beer? Why, it was Wertner. There was no 




SOMETHING CHEAP 


221 


mistaking that glossy blond head, the set of his 
shoulders. Fool to be so nervous. She had never 
met him. 

The German, eyeing her, leaned forward to Lili. 
“Your friend is no good,” he said coarsely. 

“Don’t mind him,” Lili said to her in English. 
But she had risen, her green eyes bright with loath¬ 
ing, her head held high. 

The music had started again, a jazz tune. Hug¬ 
ging bodies see-sawed by. Flasheim was watching. 
She couldn’t stand here. Impulse impelled her across 
the room. 

She found herself beside Wertner’s table. He 
was lighting a cigarette. He looked at her, the 
match burning out slowly. She read in the intense 
stillness of his pose, in the concentrated stare of 
his blue eyes, that he knew who she was. And shame 
ran through her, hot and stinging. 

He stood up with a military click of his heels. 
“Gnadige Frau —you here ?” 

Oh, well, what did it matter! He was no better 
than the rest, and at least he wouldn’t insult her. 
“You know me then?” She sank into the chair he 
offered, with a weary droop of shoulders. 

“I have seen you often with your husband,” he 
said gravely. “But I-” 

Her laugh had the ring of metal. “But you 
wonder what I’m doing alone at the Nachtingall. 
Obvious enough, isn’t it? I’m helping fat men spend 
their kronen on Hungarian champagne. Will you 



222 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


order me a sandwich please? I’ve had no dinner.” 
Under his persistent gaze, she added, “My husband 
doesn’t know, of course. In fact, he thinks I’m 
doing something quite different.” She shrugged her 
shoulders. “One must live somehow.” 

“There are other ways of living.” His stare 
deepened, grew significant. He lifted a soft white 
hand to his moustache. 

Suddenly she leaned forward, her elbows on the 
table, her voice sharpened. “Mr. Wertner, have you 
done any business with my husband lately?” So this 
was the nagging question that had driven her to his 
table. 

He met her probing look, slowly feeling in his 
pocket. He drew out his wallet, drew from it Eng¬ 
lish bills—pounds. The very sight of them as 
against the paper trash with which the other side 
of the wallet bulged, held her spell-bound. 

“I offered these to your husband two weeks ago 
in return for a trifling service. He refused.” 

She watched him slide them back into his wallet, 
the wallet back into his pocket. He wasn’t lying. 
But then that other money—the money hidden in 
the suitcase! She stared at the sandwiches the 
waiter set before her—single round slices of stale 
bread trimmed with eggs and anchovy. Wertner’s 
polished blue eyes were fixed upon her. 

“Your husband has money, nicht wahr?” He 
spoke softly. And he smiled, stroking his short fair 
moustache. 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


223 

He was suddenly hateful to her. What right had 
she to sit here with this man talking over Hal’s 
affairs, giving away his secrets? Her sensitive 
gesture lifted her half out of her chair. 

But he waved her back with a courteous— “Ste 
verzeihung, gnddige Frau. I thought you knew. 
Your husband told me the other day that he was 
doing big business here for an American friend of 
Mrs. Pratt’s.” 

Hal doing business, decent business, honest busi¬ 
ness? Oh, if she could believe that—if only she 
could! She drew herself straighter, her hands fold¬ 
ing, unfolding in her lap. Think back over the past 
week—think of his every word, of every look. 
Real responsibility for once in his life would make 
him tired, preoccupied, irritable. And yesterday at 
one of her caustic reproaches, hadn’t he retorted, 
“If it weren’t for Mrs. Pratt—” and then suddenly 
cut himself short. 

Oh, she could see it all now, blind and mad that 
she’d been. He hadn’t told her yet because he 
meant to punish her for her little faith. She had 
wounded him too deeply. 

The music crashing, the cloop of champagne 
corks, the voices and laughter, reached her from 
another world. Tears gathered smarting under her 
eyelids. She would go to him humbly, she would 
go down on her knees. Beg his pardon. She would 
tell him—good God, she couldn’t tell him! If ever 
he knew that she had lied to him, cheapened and 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


224 

abased herself, sold her smile, her graces to strangers 
—It was so little, so petty, so mean. 

Wertner’s voice, low and urgent, sounded in her 
ear. What? She looked up and was turned to 
stone. 

Hal stood in the door at the end of the room. 
With him was Mrs. Wilbur Pratt and two other 
people. As in a flash of lightning at night, she saw 
him outlined, unnaturally tall. 

“I should have warned you,” Wertner was mur¬ 
muring. “I ran across them half an hour ago at 
the Chapeau Rouge” 

Someone beckoned to her frantically from behind 
the orchestra. Lili Fischer, yes, of course, she 
couldn’t afford to be found here either. 

She sat stricken, a ghastly pale little woman, her 
red lips stiffened in a smile. She watched the head- 
waiter lead Hal and his party to a box directly oppo¬ 
site. She watched Hal turn to give an order. 

“You can say you came with me.” Wertner bent 
toward her. 

Lies—lies—lies. No more of them. Well, the 
comedy was ended. When Hal saw her- 

Count the seconds now. He was leaning over 
Mrs. Pratt, who glimmered in silver. Zardi, the 
dark Tzigane, swayed up to the box, his violin raised. 
Ah, that waltz again- 

Hal straightened, glanced across the room. 

The tension snapped. She waited as one waits 
among ruins. 




SOMETHING CHEAP 


225 


4 

He came swiftly, shoving aside the dancing 
couples. He came fiercely, roughly. A mournful 
pride lifted her to meet him. She was quiet now, 
gathered together as if her whole being had rallied 
to her heart and waited there for a mortal blow. 

Then he was upon her, his voice thick with vio¬ 
lence, his bloodshot eyes glowering at Wertner. 

“What does this mean? What-” 

Must save him from scandal. A scene before 
Mrs. Pratt would be fatal to him. 

She had him by the arm. Under her breath she 
commanded him, “Dance with me. I’ll explain.” 
What if he hadn’t danced for years? In spite of 
his leg, he would have to dance now. 

“Dance!” He stared at her. “I should say 
I-” 

“You’ve got to.” She slipped his arm about her 
waist. Strong the feel of it, the touch of him once 
more. His bewildered bulk still wavered. She 
pressed him gently, firmly onto the crowded floor. 

Major and Mrs. Brassington-Welsh waltzing. A 
big clumsy man towed by a desperate little woman 
whose spangles glittered beneath the crude lights, 
whose face, uplifted, had withered under the powder, 
whose wide crimson mouth held pitifully her smile. 
The sad rhythm of the waltz bore them on. Waves 
that never reached a shore. 




226 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“What are you doing here with that scoundrel?” 
He was hard and unfamiliar. His arm tightened 
around her. 

Better get it over with. Words came in little 
gasps. “He happened in here to-night and recog¬ 
nised me. That’s all. Hal, I lied to you about 
my job—all I could get—dancing here nights.” 

“Good God!” His hand in hers went clammy, 
limp. He blundered through a step. Stopped short. 
A helpless moment they stood buffeted, jostled by 
revolving couples. She forced him on—around and 
around. He moved like a man in a daze. But he 
hadn’t thrown her off. 

A blur of faces, of shoulders, swimming in 
streaked spotted light. A melody borne forward to 
swoon back. Herself and Hal, dwindled to a speck, 
turning mindlessly—faster, faster. Vertiginous. 
Mrs. Pratt’s face shone out of the mist. Diamonds 
and platinum. 

Smile, bow. 

Her voice sounded thin and far away, telling Hal. 
“Lost my faith—I’m punished— Oh, Hal, it’s been 
hideous. But why didn’t you tell me you had some¬ 
thing big at last?” It rose to a wail. 

His face was bent close to hers. They moved 
like a mechanical toy running down. 

Their voices intermingled. 

“Something big?” 

“Didn’t you tell Wertner you were putting over a 


SOMETHING CHEAP 


227 

deal for one of Mrs. Pratt’s friends? Hal, I found 
money in your suitcase. I thought-” 

“Yes, I bragged a bit.” Their eyes met forlorn, 
intimate. He drew a deep breath like a sigh. “Nita, 
I’m that woman’s courier. I run her rotten errands 
for her, I pay her bloody bills. I all but count her 
wash. And she’s leaving next week.” 

“Oh, Hal!” They turned, knocked about at will 
of the tune, up and down—down and up. 

She lifted her head to smile. All the years in 
that crooked smile. “Our best,” she murmured. 

Their best. She in the Nachtingall, Hal a courier. 
“But then the money-” 

“Was to pay for a fur laprobe she bought,” he 
told her, stumbling around to the Viennese waltz. 

So she had shamed him that day when she told 
him her lie. She knew what he must have suffered 
from the men he had approached, his acquaintances 
at Anna’s Bar, and those men at the Bristol whose 
keen eyes saw through him, saw through his swagger 
and boasting, saw the sad, battered adventurer, and 
would have none of him. What it must have cost 
him to turn to Mrs. Pratt, confess himself penniless, 
take what she offered. And she had used him, her 
Major, as she used her cheap little dressmakers, her 
cheap modistes, her cheap jewellers. And now she 
was going- 

Faster and faster, the music. The violin quivered 
on a final thin note that hung in the heavy air. 





228 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

What did anything matter? She and Hal- 

The shuffle of dancers returning to their places, 
the scraping of chairs, the rustle of feet, reached 
her faintly. They couldn’t stand here forever. 
Flasheim was watching. 

Hal gripped her elbow. Where was he taking 
her? Toward the box where Mrs. Pratt sat, her 
lorgnette raised. 

“Oh, no, not there, Hal.’’ 

“Yes, Nita.” 

Something in his voice, his manner, tore at her 
heart. 

“Come on.” He led the way, his shoulders 
squared, his chest expanded. 

She was shaking hands with Mrs. Pratt; with a 
bald pink young man, a fuzzy brown young woman. 

She sat on as in a dream, sipping her wine. Yes, 
it was quite gay here for Vienna. Not as amusing 
as Montmartre. Oh, no! 

Suddenly behind her, Hal’s voice sounded with 
the round full note. “Very old friend of mine. 
Just the man I wanted you to meet. I hoped Nita 
could get hold of him to-night.” 

Still in her dream, she saw Wertner clicking his 
heels together, bowing. He shone and tempted. 

Hal bent forward to whisper in Mrs. Pratt’s ear, 
who turned, her features sharpened, her eyes bright 
and greedy. “Oh, how do you do, Mr. Wertner. 
The Major tells me you know of something too 
wonderful I can—oh, but it’s a secret, isn’t it?” 



SOMETHING CHEAP 


229 


Hal’s voice again. “Nita’s a bit tired. You 
don’t mind our slipping off?” His hand on her 
shoulder linked them forever and ever. 

Her little smile carried her out of the box. Hal 
towered above her. She looked up and their eyes 
met. Then she followed him slowly as he swaggered 
on ahead. 


CHAPTER VII 


GLAMOUR 

I 

T HERE was no going back. Hawkes had been 
right when he told her that morning in Brass- 
ington Hall that habits once formed were not 
easily broken. Moral muscles grew flabby, he had 
said,—flabby from lack of exercise. Yes, he was 
right. Once Hal had accepted Wertner’s money 
and she had allowed him to accept it, they had 
tacitly confessed themselves down and out. Weak¬ 
lings. But what else could they have done ? What 
else could there ever be for Major and Mrs. Brass- 
ington-Welsh? That was the bitter, bitter question. 

The worst of it was, she didn’t care so very much 
—at first. How unmorally sweet had been the sense 
of escape from everything she dreaded, everything 
she loathed! Feeling that you could afford things 
again. Feeling Hal beside her more lover-like than 
he had been for many a year; Hal talking of second 
honeymoons and romance and Venice as the perfect 
setting. Just those English pounds made the differ¬ 
ence. Money. 

Passionately she had given herself over to the 
230 


GLAMOUR 


231 

enjoyment of the fleeting moment. Drift for a while 
and be happy. Why not? Venice, water, gondolas 
—the Venice of her girl-dreams. Here it was. Here 
was Venice; here she was in Venice, not daring to 
think of the past; not caring to think of the morrow. 

She might have known it couldn’t last. 

She was very angry and worried to-night. She 
lay back in the gondola, a little woman in black with 
too much powder on her cheeks, too much red on 
her lips and too much bitterness in her heart. 

Her companion sat bolt upright beside her, chew¬ 
ing on his cigar. He was a small, bony man with a 
rummaging eye that he had ably used during the 
evening. His present silence meant several things, 
all of them wearisomely familiar, and all of them 
to be summed up in a significant word—trouble. She 
had been sure of that ever since, in the mellow 
after-glow of coffee and liqueurs, Hal had shown off 
the Fabbia necklace, and with it his own impaired 
powers of invention. Why couldn’t he have told 
the truth; told how he came to have such a valuable 
thing to sell, and to whom it really belonged? Or, 
if the Contessa so insisted on discretion, why couldn’t 
he have lied convincingly? 

Mr. Gale had not believed a story more intricate 
than the filigree carvings of the old-gold setting. 
She had observed the startled intensity of his gaze 
as he examined the jewels. 

He recognised them! And then he had caught 
her watching him. He was watching her now. She 


232 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

knew that as she knew too many things in this sad 
world. 

Hal, of course, realized none of this. He had 
sauntered up to her in the hall of the Hotel Danieli 
and bent to whisper, “You’ll manage the old bird 
now, won’t you, Nita? There’s a dear girl.” Where¬ 
upon, fatuously remarking aloud that the Contessa 
Fabbia was waiting for him, he had swaggered on 
ahead, leaving her to trail behind with William P. 
Gale. By the time she and Mr. Gale reached the 
Quays the Fabbia gondola had melted into the Vene¬ 
tian atmosphere. Of all abominable insolence, carry¬ 
ing Hal off like that, without a word to her! 

Well, she was in no mood to be a dear girl. And 
if she managed anything, it would be to find out why 
this fascinating red-haired widow chose, in her 
mother-in-law’s absence, to entrust to such a man as 
Hal a ruby-and-diamond heirloom worth a fortune. 
Interesting to know what the old Marchesa Fabbia 
would think of Major Brassington-Welsh handling 
an ornament that for centuries past had adorned 
the proud necks of great Venetian ladies. She 
could see the rubies now as they had scornfully 
flashed their wise old fires in Hal’s congested face, 
among the subdued gilt furnishings and mirrors of 
their salon in the Hotel Danieli; could hear the 
showman’s tone in Hal’s voice, and feel again the 
odd excitement in Mr. Gale’s manner. 

“Know the Contessa for long?” Mr. Gale ad- 


GLAMOUR 


233 

dressed her for the first time since their imposed 
tete-a-tete. 

“Only for a little while.” 

She tried to speak quietly. From the lesser dis¬ 
tinction of the hired gondola, she could at last dimly 
make out the Fabbia gondola gliding along in the 
moonlight, fantastic, fairylike in this languorous 
world of stars and water, of whisperings, of lanterns, 
of tenor voices. She imagined the glow of Hal’s 
cigar, his heavy lounging figure, and the sinuous line 
of the Contessa reclining beside him in pale draperies. 
Having one of their business talks, no doubt, in 
which Major Brassington-Welsh felt himself lifted 
into the faded splendours of Venetian society; saw 
himself selling for “fat commissions” the treasures 
of high-sounding names. 

“Know anything about her?” Mr. Gale casually 
questioned. But there was nothing casual in the 
deliberate movement with which he struck a match 
for his cigar and held it so that he could peer into 
her face. 

“Do you?” she parried. Heigho, but she was 
tired of distrusting and being distrusted! So tired 
of those rusty little bells that rang ever fainter the 
alarm within, as if the nerves that set them off were 
weary of their job. 

“Oh, I’ve heard a few things.” Mr. Gale shifted 
his pose to gaze at San Giorgio Maggiore couched 
against the stars. “Kind of woman men fall for, 
isn’t she?” 


234 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


“Fall in trouble—yes,” slipped from her. Sorry 
she had said that. “She’s very lovely.” 

She tilted her head against the leather cushion, 
wearing her little smile like a knot of red ribbon to 
hide shabby spots. 

Through half-closed eyes, she could follow now 
the slender silhouette of the Fabbia gondola, the 
rhythmic sway of the Fabbia gondoliers; ghostly 
figures bending to and fro. 

But Mr. Gale had not done with her. 

“Beautiful necklace your husband has got hold of. 
I know something about jewels. Whom did he say it 
belonged to?” His small, keen eyes sounded and 
probed. 

“Mr. Gale, do you know the Marchesa Fabbia?” 
She asked it abruptly. His expression altered ever 
so slightly. Her guess was right then. She pressed 
her advantage. “I think you do.” 

She was smiling, an innocent little woman in black. 
Venice around her. 

“I’d like to hear what else you think.” 

He leaned closer, his cigar loosely held between 
short, bony fingers. She let him wait while she 
fumbled in her bag for a cigarette. Then slowly: 
“I think, Mr. Gale,” she said, “that you have seen 
that necklace before.” 

He appeared to be flavouring his cigar before 
dryly remarking, “You’re a very bright young 
woman. Let us suppose that I have. What then?” 

She had perhaps gone too far; certainly far 


GLAMOUR 


235 

enough to have cast a perceptible shadow on the 
whole transaction. Well, the shadow was, and had 
been there, from the beginning, and if Hal had 
listened to her- 

She stared out at the swimming loveliness of the 
night. They were drawing closer to the lantern- 
hung barge of the Serenata. Italian songs drifted. 
Her heart was filled with the pain of yearning and 
she couldn’t for the moment answer. What was 
Venice to her but a city of bridges, pigeons, crumb¬ 
ling old apricot fronts and Byzantine domes? Her 
store room of memory was littered with such junk— 
painted scenery, cracked and peeling. She thought 
of Vienna and shuddered. 

‘‘What then?” Mr. Gale called her back. 

She was goaded on to answer: “Why then, know¬ 
ing whom it really does belong to, you either want to 
buy it without too many unpleasant questions or 
—” She turned to face him. “I don’t see why 
I shouldn’t tell you,” she said defiantly.. “The Con- 
tessa Fabbia asked Hal to sell that necklace without 
mentioning any names. So he made up that absurd 
story about a starving prince. I’m telling you this 
because I want you to understand that he’s in no 
way responsible-” 

Hal would be furious with her. 

“Very clever,” murmured Mr. Gale as if he ap¬ 
preciated a performance given for his benefit. 

She floundered on, miserably aware of a blunder. 
She wished now that she had held her tongue. 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


236 

“You knew it! You gave yourself away this 
evening when you saw that necklace. It’s only fair to 
Hal-” 

Gale nodded. 

“So I gave myself away, did I? What eyes you 
have, Mrs. Brassington-Welsh! Well, well!” Smil¬ 
ing, he puffed at his cigar. 

Only a few more moments now before they 
reached the Serenata barge. In the clear soft light 
she could see the Fabbia gondola nozzling in among 
the others, a black brood circling the troup of musi¬ 
cians in the larger boat. Above the long black-and- 
gold stuffs trailing over the deep dreamy seat, she 
saw Hal’s dark head and the rich glow of the 
Contessa’s hair. 

“Mr. Gale, please forget what I told you.” But 
he wasn’t the forgetting kind. 

The gentle urge of the gondolier’s long, slender 
oar pushed them forward. Click of silvery prows 
and rubbing of gondolas intimate, glamorous. 
Strangers who looked like melted sticks of candy, 
red and white, spilled all sticky and smeary under the 
moon. Hal’s voice drowning the song of an olive¬ 
skinned boy. 

“O sole mio—” The boy stood, his head flung 
back, singing. 

Poor, sad, little woman with the years showing 
under her powder, and her man not beside her. 

“I say, you two! Thought you were never com¬ 
ing on.” 



GLAMOUR 


237 

It would take more than a few fluttery mandolins 
and a Neapolitan song to keep Hal quiet. He leaned 
forward, all shirt front and moustache, preening 
himself among carved dolphins and the Fabbia arms. 
His face shone a red and jolly contrast to the Con- 
tessa, who lolled beside him like a long, uncurled 
feather, too languid to stir. 

“Where have you been, carina?” she murmured. 

“Oh, we browsed along,” drawled Mr. Gale; but 
the look he gave her did not go with a drawl. 

“All right, old dear?” Hal craned his head 
around, wagging and beaming. That jovial mood 
wouldn’t last for long if he knew what she had 
done. Her heart sank within her as she imaged 
him stamping about, flushed and swollen, roaring at 
her, “What the devil d’you mean, Nita, med¬ 
dling-” 

Yes, she had meddled and would meddle again. 
Why did that woman need to take up with an old 
battered creature like Hal! No good in it. 

“Rippin’!” Hal proclaimed, graciously bowing to 
the musicians ; and his hand moved up to his mous¬ 
tache as the Contessa begged him in that soft, slurred 
voice of hers for a match. Obvious device, that—a 
cigarette, a match, a whisper. 

Pagliacci. 

What did anything matter? She lay back, her 
little smile moored to her lips. You knocked about 
and grew old and nobody cared. Sheen of water, 
plash and click. Twang of strings, limp, mooning 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


238 

strangers. The colour painted by lantern and star 
gave them all for a while the sense of being dis¬ 
guised. Forgotten, hotel bills, postal cards, the ex¬ 
change, Baedekers. In a sweet syrup of illusion, 
they swam together, unaware of the acrid taste of 
this stuff of Venice; unaware that beneath the smooth 
watered surface the nerves of the past dangerously 
tingled. But it was there, that slumbering violence 
of ages gone by. 

“How about it, Gale, old man?” 

Hal’s gesture offered up romance much as he had 
shown off the necklace. 

“Oh, I’m looking around.” 

And Mr. Gale proved that he could do just that. 
Under his cool stare the Contessa stirred as if the 
late August air were yet too chilly for summery 
stuffs and white furs. 

“If you don’t mind, Major—I am tired.” And 
she sent one of those frail, bright glances in the 
direction of the men. But the brightness she fixed 
on Gale was a trifle more intense, more like the flash 
of a weapon. 

“Right-o!” Hal was gallantly at her orders. He 
remembered in time. “I say, Nita, why don’t you 
and Gale trot along after us? Jolly ride up the 
canal.” 

Trot along after them, indeed! 

“Not a bad idea!” Her green eyes were frosty. 

To a tarantella thrummed on mandolins the 
Fabbia gondoliers were already pulling out. The 


GLAMOUR 


239 

Contessa fluttered a languid farewell with her long, 
tapering fingers. Hal’s face, red and black, grinned 
a moment in the lantern glow. He twisted about to 
wave and shout, “See you later!” 

And now the illumination of the barge grew dim¬ 
mer, music floated. They slid past the lighted fronts 
of hotels into sleek shadows. Smell of fish, of rotten 
eggs on the ebbing tide. She felt emptied of anger, 
weary of it all. Came the hoarse, lugubrious cry of 
a gondolier sweeping around a dark corner. 

“I think if you’ll excuse me I’ll go back to the 
hotel.” She sounded her dreariness. 

“Just a moment.” Mr. Gale lit another cigar, 
taking his time. “Are you going to tell your hus¬ 
band of our little talk?” 

“I suppose so.” She wished he hadn’t reminded 
her of it. 

“You must not tell him, Mrs. Brassington- 
Welsh.” 

There was a note of command in his voice. It 
drew her up, her head held high, thin nostrils 
quivering. 

“I shall do as I think best, Mr. Gale.” 

He softened his tone. 

“Look here, I’ll be frank with you.” 

She turned away to gaze up at the spectral arches 
and pillars of old facades. Perhaps it would be 
wiser to listen. 

“Look here,” he said again. His small hard body 
seemed charged with sudden energy. “This Coun- 


240 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


tess, now—she’s no friend of yours.” He was 
watching her closely. “Suppose I give you a bit of 
her history—if you don’t know it already.” 

It was as if he played a cold little searchlight on 
her. 

“Go on,” she consented, and settled deeper in the 
black cushions. 

“She’s an American. You wouldn’t think it, but 
they get that way sometimes. She married the 
Fabbia boy several months before he was killed in 
the war. His family refused to recognise her, until 
about a year ago. She’s a persistent young woman.” 
Persistence, apparently, was a quality he grudg¬ 
ingly admired. “But they’re not satisfied. Under¬ 
stand? Now she and that husband of yours—I’m 
not saying anything against him, but-” 

“You’d better not!” She spoke up harshly. In 
the moonlight her face was whiter for the red of 
her lips. 

“Seems to me”—Mr. Gale squinted at the stars— 
“seems to me I’ve heard of Major Brassington- 
Welsh.” 

Trying to frighten her! 

“What if you have?” 

She faced him, an aroused, blonde little woman, 
ready to fight for her man. 

“Wait a moment! Wait a moment!” 

With a brusque movement he turned and spoke to 
the gondolier. And now their gondola lay like a 
long, black fish in the shadows of a mouldy wall. 



GLAMOUR 


241 


“I want to go back to the hotel.” 

She was very angry; and she was frightened, as 
he had meant her to be. 

Opposite them, on the canal, the Fabbia gondola 
glided up to the old stone steps of the Fabbia 
Palazzo. 

“See that?” Gale pointed. 

It was as if the Contessa had set her stage for a 
tableau, which she immediately presented as 
wrought-iron doors opened into a dim vista of 
marble and stone statues. She stood poised a mo¬ 
ment beside Hal’s ponderous bulk. Then she was 
framed in the doorway. With her red hair glowing 
and that long willowy effect of light chiffons, she 
looked seductive enough to turn any man’s head. 
Hal lingered. Probably he thought himself a most 
gallant and killing creature, standing there bare¬ 
headed on the steps of an old crumbly palace flirting 
with a countess. 

“Pity that her mother-in-law happens to be at the 
Grand Hotel in Rome,” Mr. Gale slowly observed. 

Hal had never before looked at another woman. 
He had never before— It turned her fierce and wild. 

“Why do you do this to me? How do you know 
all these things?” 

“I know a great many things.” There was an 
ominous inflection to Mr. Gale’s voice. 

From the shadows where their gondola gently 
rocked, she stared across at those two figures out¬ 
lined now in the great doorway. Why had Gale 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


242 

brought her here to suffer? Mechanically her mind 
worked, fitting, piecing significant bits together. 
Hadn’t Gale sought Hal’s acquaintance in the bar 
of the Hotel Danieli? Hadn’t Gale asked to be in¬ 
troduced to the Contessa? Yes, and Gale had led 
Hal on, she remembered; had encouraged his boast¬ 
ing; had adroitly questioned and pried. It wasn’t 
hard these days to lead Hal on. And then to¬ 
night— 

She had it. An American with the technique of a 
lawyer, a man familiar with the Fabbia affairs. Clear 
enough. If the Marchesa Fabbia wished to investi¬ 
gate the private life of an undesirable daughter-in- 
law she would never go to an Italian. Contemptible! 

“You were sent here,” she attacked him. “You 
were sent here to spy on her. You found her play¬ 
ing around with us. You sized us up. And then 
Hal showed you the necklace. You knew it wasn’t 
for sale.” 

This Gale man had gone about things in a beastly 
way. After all, life was hard on women. 

“I told you that you were clever.” Mr. Gale, un¬ 
moved, stared at the stub of his cigar, then turned 
to gaze across the shimmery water at the prolonged 
adieus of the two in the doorway. “Now, you’re 
gonig to be sensible, Mrs. Brassington-Welsh.” His 
voice was crisp and cold again. “I don’t want to 
get you into trouble, but I can’t afford to be inter¬ 
fered with. So what about our working together, 



GLAMOUR 


*43 

you and me? If your husband is straight it won’t 
do him any harm-” 

“He is straight,” she gave back at him; but in the 
hollow corridors of her heart the words echoed 
forlornly. 

“All right,” Mr. Gale conceded. “You say so. 
Well then, what about giving him a little lesson? 
He’s infatuated with this woman. You want him 
cured, don’t you? Now look here!” He bent for¬ 
ward to lay a hand on her arm, unimpressed by her 
swift withdrawal. “You keep quiet about our talk 
to-night and let the sale of the necklace go through. 
We’ll prove to your husband that he’s been used, 
d’you understand?—used by this woman. No fuss, 
no scandal. We don’t want that any more than 
you do. What about it?” 

In the dimly-lit picture across the canal she saw 
Hal bend at last to kiss the Contessa’s hand. In¬ 
tolerable, the thought of his droopy moustache touch¬ 
ing that long, tapering hand, his eyes growing more 
bloodshot, his face redder. And this might go 
on- 

Her lips were dry under the rouge. 

“I’ve always played square with Hal, Mr. Gale.” 

Had she? There were times when for his own 
good she had lied. 

“Better listen to me,” the little man said bluntly. 
It sounded like a threat. 

Hal turned, was peering over the star-flecked 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


244 

water; perhaps wondering where she and Gale were. 
Rather late to wonder that. 

The Contessa had melted into the chill old hall, 
the massive iron doors closed. 

She felt desperate. must think it over.” 

The Fabbia gondola, a slender, elegant silhouette, 
was moving off, Hal lounging in it. 

u Avanti!” Gale ordered, and their gondola slipped 
into the track of the other. “I’ll give you until to¬ 
morrow afternoon. Say nothing until then.” His 
manner was brusque. 

Hal needed a lesson. Besides, he wouldn’t be¬ 
lieve her if she told him. He would fly into one 
of his dreadful tempers. Her spirit felt crushed as 
by hands of steel. 

“I’ll have to think it over,” she faltered. He took 
it as a promise. 

They stole up to the Fabbia gondola and Hal 
didn’t even see them. He was leaning back, off his 
guard. All the boom and bluster even to his full 
rich colour had ebbed, leaving him dark and empty. 
In repose his face sagged. He looked heavy and 
old. 

“Hal!” She leaned out of the gondola to call. 

Pitiful the way he pulled himself together, forcing 
the old hearty note: 

“Oh, hello—hello! Where did you come from?” 

“We’ve been cruising around,” Gale quietly 
answered. 


GLAMOUR 


245 

Hal sat up straighter; his hand swept out in a 
large circular gesture. 

“Nothing like it in the world,” he rumbled. 
“Nothing like it. My friend, Count Brunelli—ever 
meet him?—was telling me the other day—” His 
voice went on filling the night with the noise of 
boasting. 

A vast mournful sense of loss held her still, her 
small arts and graces fallen from her like useless 
ornaments. Song came over the water. The Quays 
lay creamy and white, the domes seemed to have 
dwindled in the night. The Lido, like an unclasped 
necklace in a dark velvet box, gleamed distantly. 

She closed her eyes. Ah, if she were only younger. 

2 

The Lido. Sun and the bathing hour. And Mrs. 
Brassington-Welsh, who had come here after a sleep¬ 
less night to do the decent thing. A debatable prob¬ 
lem, the decent thing. Depended on how you looked 
at it. She looked at it with the bitter green eyes of 
one who has wandered through perilous years, har¬ 
ried and hounded. There was the trapper and the 
trapped. Gale was the trapper. After all, she 
hadn’t promised him anything definite, and it was a 
mean game he wanted her to play. 

There were other cleaner games she had thought 
of during the endless night. She meant to try one 
and then another. If the first didn’t succeed, well, 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


246 

she would turn—not to Gale, nor even to Hal. But 
surely a cautious warning would drive the Contessa 
away, and Hal would have his lesson just the same. 
Yet she had not spoken. The words would not 
come. 

Nothing but malice had made the Contessa so 
friendly this morning; the malice of knowing herself 
daring and beautiful after her bath as she rested on 
a couch under the gay awning of her cabin. Flaunt¬ 
ing herself there in her flowered rose-silk pyjamas, 
high-heeled satin slippers on her stockingless feet, a 
rose ribbon binding her red hair. Outrageous the 
way these women got themselves up after their 
baths. 

Hard to be fair; hard to be generous. She sat on 
a pliable folding chair, wishing she hadn’t come, 
wishing that at least she had worn a veil to hide the 
flush of her cheeks, the sallow markings under her 
eyes. Among all the bright moving colours, sleek 
fashion disporting itself against an intense blue of 
sea and sky, an intense gold of sand, she felt herself 
rusty in black; not even a parasol. 

4 ‘Why do you dislike me, carina?” 

The Contessa languidly turned to lean on an 
elbow. She was like a piece of vivid silk in which 
lurked the slender point of a needle, ready to prick. 

“I don’t dislike you.” No, she hated her. 

The Contessa laughed. 

“Ah, but you do, Che peccato! I find you so in¬ 
teresting. You look as if you had—lived.” 


GLAMOUR 


247 

Let her laugh and mock. A word and the fun 
would be on the other side. Would it? You never 
knew with a woman like that. Give her no satis¬ 
faction. 

“I have no illusions, if that’s what you mean.” 

The Contessa laughed again, sinking back among 
her cushions, the flowered rose silk of her pyjamas 
undulating as she lifted her slim body. 

“How delightful to have no illusions! It lightens 
one’s luggage so.” And she dipped into her plati¬ 
num cigarette case with its coronet of diamonds. 
Her thin scarlet lips daintily took hold of a Russian 
cigarette. “I beg your pardon. Do have one. A 
friend of mine keeps me supplied.” 

“No, thank you.” 

Her formal manner, she knew, ill accorded with 
hot cheeks, and hating eyes. What was she waiting 
for? She hadn’t come here to be made a fool of, 
to expose herself in this pitiless morning light to the 
amused inspection of an enemy. But the fight was 
not in the open, and there was always the chance that 
the single blow she had to deal would not put to 
flight this insolent, audacious woman. Then, 
what- 

The Contessa, cool and flower-skinned, blew little 
pale rings of smoke into the bright air and gossiped 
between puffs, as if for the rest of her life she had 
nothing to do but to lie there consuming Russian 
cigarettes and demolishing reputations. 

You couldn’t listen to her without a sense of help- 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


248 

lessness, as exquisitely she punctured the complacent 
surface of the people scattered over the beach, pene¬ 
trating to their intimate envies, their greeds, their 
loves. 

Dancers, duchesses, wealthy Americans, young 
girls, attached and unattached men—she knew them 
all enough to draw a single drop of acid poison from 
each. 

This couldn’t go on. Either say what she had 
come to say or- 

But the Contessa, having finished with cigarette 
and scandal raised herself on an elbow and sweetly 
—too sweetly—inquired, “Where is the Major? I 
shall have to scold him for not turning up.” 

Careful now! No time and place to lose her 
temper. Surely the hard years had taught her con¬ 
trol, had taught that wide red mouth its gallant 
ways. “I believe he went out with Mr. Gale.” 

“Where have they gone?” The Contessa’s voice 
had lost its sweetish quality. 

It would have been delicious to refuse satisfaction, 
but the truth, now she thought of it, might prove 
even more disquieting. 

“Oh, I thought you knew! Mr. Gale wanted an 
expert to see the necklace. He happened to hear of 
an American stopping at the same hotel. So he and 
Hal-” 

But the Contessa, with a surprising energy, had 
swung about on her couch and sat on the edge, her 
eyes the purple of storm clouds, her face very white 




GLAMOUR 


249 

against the glittering red of her hair and the deep- 
flowered rose of her costume. 

“Why didn’t he consult me? I distinctly told him 
not to show the necklace to anyone—not to anyone 
except the purchaser.” 

Speaking of tempers! If Hal could see his lovely 
lady now! 

“My husband isn’t your servant, Madame.” 

Suddenly passion filled her, straining to break out. 
What right had any woman to use this tone about 
Hal? The Contessa’s thin scarlet lips made a 
straight cruel line not pleasant to see. 

“Your husband,” she said, lowering her voice as 
a gay group drifted to the adjoining cabin—“your 
husband is a stupid, bungling idiot. I should have 
known better than to have anything to do with a 
man of his type.” 

“What about his having anything to do with 
you?” 

There was a rushing in her head, in her ears. The 
air quivered with a thousand reflections as of blades 
whirling. Stretches of sand, and glare of blue, and 
hot red hair between her and the sea. 

“Hal-loo! Thought we’d find you here!” 

Hal suddenly blazed upon them like a red-and- 
white electric sign. In the splendour of his white 
flannels and a complexion that had nothing to do 
with the sun, he twinkled a moment, comfortably 
unaware that anything in this jolly old world could 
go wrong. Whiskies at Florian’s, of course. 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


250 

With a swift, suspicious glance at Gale, who, in 
loose home-spun, hovered in the background, wiping 
his forehead with a silk handkerchief, the Contessa 
rose from her couch and looked around as if hunting 
for a bell that would summon a footman to conduct 
them all from her house. 

“Hal dear, the Contessa has an engagement. We 
mustn’t keep her.” 

If Hal had had any sense left he would have seen 
by the suffused crimson of her cheeks, the glitter of 
her green eyes, a betrayal of a passion that was still 
shaking her. He should have heard by the very 
vibrations of her voice. But he didn’t. 

“Oh, come now, Nita; we can have a little drink 
together first,” said he, cocking a bloodshot eye at 
small tables that were being set for luncheon in front 
of* the cabins. And with an arch wag of his head 
in the Contessa’s direction, he adjusted the rakish 
angle of his grey fedora. “I say, you know, we 
need a drink. Been doing big business this morn¬ 
ing, haven’t we, Gale?” 

At this jovial hint, Gale slowly came forward. 
You could tell that he, at least, was missing nothing. 

“We’re not wanted, Hal.” She said it rudely. 

“What d’you mean?” 

It had at last dawned on him that something was 
wrong. He stared from her to his Contessa, who, 
as disdainful as anyone could be in rose-silk pyjamas, 
frigidly answered. “I prefer not to discuss it. I 
really can’t have another scene here.” 


GLAMOUR 


251 


Another scene, indeed! Those small rummaging 
eyes of Gale’s were fixed upon her. She took Hal’s 
arm. 

“Come, Hal! Come!” 

But you couldn’t budge him. He stood there 
getting redder and redder, tugging at his moustache, 
and suddenly, furiously, he turned on her—on her, 
Nita. 

“Look here, Nita, what the devil have you been 
up to? If you’ve said anything-” 

People staring, Gale watching, and that woman, 
with a beastly little smile, sinking down among her 
cushions, as if the whole affair bored her, and she 
couldn’t help it if vulgar, loud nobodies, intruded 
on her privacy. 

“Ask your friend what she said about you, Hal,” 
she flung at him; and with her head held high, she 
marched off past the light, chattering groups, the 
hurrying waiters. 

If Hal came after her she would tell him every¬ 
thing. If he didn’t— She slowed her pace, giving 
him time. 

He wasn’t coming. All right then. Act quickly 
while the impulse was upon her, while the raw wound 
smarted and ached. 

Up the wide steps of the terrace she went, into 
the big Turkish hall of the hotel, where, in a few 
hours, a jazz band would crash to the tinkle of 
teacups. 

She went with short, swift, little steps to the desk. 



252 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Hard to write with her hand shaking so. What was 
the hotel in Rome where the Marchesa Fabbia was 
stopping? Gale had mentioned it. She crumbled 
and threw away two telegraph blanks before her 
message was even legible. 

There, it was done! Panic gripped her, held her 
motionless, leaning against one of the white columns 
of the hall, staring at the flock of small tables, the 
wicker furniture. 

Gay, careless people drifted by with idle move¬ 
ments of shoulders and arms. She couldn’t stay here 
forever. She moved slowly out onto the wide ter¬ 
race again, down the steps, looking neither to right 
nor to left. 


3 

She went toward the sea, moving mechanically, a 
little woman whose black toque and voile gown struck 
an intense note in the sunlight. Sand in her patent 
leather slippers, fine particles that grated against 
the soles of her feet. 

Sit down a moment here in this warm gold with 
nothing around but the clean blue of sky, the fine 
wavering line of sea against the beach. A child in 
red playing over there; a slim young woman strolling 
beside a man. 

Lonely. She was lonely! Longed to sail away 
over the shining water to some strong, homely haven 
where there were simple people and unadorned 
decencies. 


GLAMOUR 


253 


“I’ve been looking for you.” 

At the sound of a voice she started. Oh, dear, it 
was Gale! She lifted her head to lower it again 
with a movement of impatience. Her foot had gone 
to sleep. The ribs of her corsets pressed into her 
side. 

“Please, I want to be alone.” She would never 
dare tell him—never. 

He sat himself down beside her with a stiff, un¬ 
accustomed arrangement of legs. 

“Young lady, I’m going to give you a bit of ad¬ 
vice.” Deliberately he paused to weigh and sift 
sand, letting it ooze between his short bony fingers 
as from an hourglass. 

“Want to hear it?” He meant to be friendly. 

She didn’t answer. What was the use? 

“Here it is, anyway,” he said: “Go home!” 

Home! Oh, that was funny—funnier than he 
realised: her little laugh told him as much. 

“Home? Where is that, Mr. Gale?” 

“Well, America is a mighty good place for 
Americans.” 

He took out his silk handkerchief, incongruously 
bright against his homespun suit, and mopped his 
face. 

Home! The wooden house in Stamford! Her 
poor mother to whom she hadn’t even written for 
weeks. Home! Her old dream of Brassington 
Hall forever dispelled. Home! Hotel bedrooms,, 
boats, trains- 



254 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

“See here,” he summoned her back. She watched 
his small, stiff figure as he bent to scoop up more 
sand. “It isn’t right for a girl like you to be mixed 

up in-” And there he stopped with a queer 

snapping to of his lips. 

Amusing, the men who had said about that same 
thing to her. Rather late for a girl like her to avoid 
being mixed up in more unsavoury affairs than Mr. 
Gale ever could guess. Wearily she shifted her 
position; the numbed nerves of her foot tingled. 

Mr. Gale left off playing with sand and spoke 
bluntly: “I want you to persuade your husband to 
give back that necklace by to-morrow morning—to 
the Countess. And—” he leaned forward with a 
sudden tenseness of body—“the quicker you leave 
Venice the better for you.” 

She wasn’t surprised. He had only followed her 
own train of thought; but he had caught up with her 
too late. If he knew that she had been about to 
betray his confidence that very morning; if he knew 
that, failing in her first move, she had undertaken a 
far more serious one on her own responsibility, what 
would he say? 

“Why do you tell me this now?” 

She looked at him steadily. There was an ex¬ 
pression on his small, tight face that was new to her. 
After all, even such a man had his human moments. 

“Why do I tell you?” He seemed to be asking 
it of himself before abruptly admitting, “I’m sure 
I don’t know.” 



GLAMOUR 


255 

“Well, Hal won’t back out.” 

For no definite reason she sounded a note of de¬ 
fiance. 

“Sure of that?” 

Mr. Gale shot it at her as if she were on a witness 
stand. And whatever was left in him of human 
flowering dwindled to a very thin bloom. She 
nodded. Had she spoken then she would have said 
too much—things that were not for him to hear, 
things that lay between herself and Hal. 

He gave a little grunt and sat frowning down at 
the sand as if his thoughts were neither kind nor 
pleasant. 

She felt suddenly not only that she had lost him, 
but that she feared him more than ever. The fierce 
glare of noonday burned in her eyes. Her black 
voile clung wilting to neck and arms. 

“Mr. Gale, you don’t trust Hal.” Stupid of her 
to challenge him this way. 

With an awkward lift of his small, stiff body, he 
scrambled to his feet. There was—his manner 
clearly expressed,—no more to be said. She rose 
slowly after him, shaking the sand from her skirt. 
Glad now she hadn’t told him about the telegram. 

“What are you going to do?” She asked it more 
as an adversary than as a fellow conspirator. 

He looked away as if for once he didn’t choose 
to meet her eye. 

“I told your husband I had cabled for the money, 
and that it should arrive some time to-morrow.” 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


256 

She drew a step nearer. 

“So you’re going through with it?” 

His turn to nod. But as, with a shrug and a ges¬ 
ture that he might take as he pleased, she started off 
across the blinding beach, he overtook her. 

“One more bit of advice, Mrs. Brassington- 
Welsh.” His voice was stern. “You’re going 
through with it too—now. You remarked a mo¬ 
ment ago that I didn’t trust your husband. I shall 
trust him still less if you or he interfere with my 
plans. And I shall know-” 

If he knew anything he should have known her 
better than to threaten. 

“Why should I interfere, Mr. Gale?” 

She thought of her telegram, and Her smile was 
a little red shield hiding her secret. 

So they walked on in silence. Wasn’t that—yes, 
it was Hal tramping toward them. If only he was 
in the right mood; if only he would come to her 
again—her Hal, her own Hal—she would tell him 
everything. 

He wasn’t in the right mood. He had a griev¬ 
ance. The hunch of his shoulders, the droop of his 
head, even his moustache proclaimed it. Mr. Gale 
watched his heavy approach. 

“I think your husband wants to talk to you alone,” 
he murmured, and lifting his hat strolled off. 

Hal stood scowling down at her. The reflected 
glare of yellow sand showed up the pufEness under 
his eyes, the grey about his temples. 



GLAMOUR 


257 


“I wish you wouldn’t meddle in my affairs,” he 
said at last savagely. “I’ve had the devil of a time 
with the Countess.” 

Her heart closed against him. 

“You look it.” And she turned from him to walk 
on. He stalked after her, hands jammed in his 
pockets. 

“Here I had everythin’ going—no trouble, no 
questions—and you come along and blab a lot of 
things that were none of your business.” 

She plodded on without a word. 

“Nita!” His voice was fretful. 

Sun and sand, sand and sun. The row of cabins 
looming up in a blur of colour and movement. 

“Why don’t you answer?” He was swelling up 
for another explosion. “If it’s only for my sake, 
you might try to be decent when I’m doin’ every¬ 
thing-” 

She halted a moment to look at him. Yes, he was 
doing everything—everything a man could do. He 
knew well enough what he was doing. He shifted 
from one foot to another under her steady gaze. His 
hand went uncertainly to his moustache. 

“You needn’t glare at me like that. I’ve had 
trouble enough,” he muttered. 

“And likely to have more,” she grimly predicted. 

But he wasn’t listening to her. 

“Small thanks to you that I’ve managed to hold 
on,” he grumbled. “She wanted to throw the whole 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


258 

thing over. Got a crazy idea in her head that she’s 
seen Gale somewhere before, and she don’t like him. 
She’s mad at me too, about this morning.” 

He waited in vain for this alarming news to make 
an impression. 

“Well?” She didn’t sound encouraging. 

“Well,” he returned with a faint rounding out of 
his importance, “I explained everything. That ex¬ 
pert fellow don’t count. Friend of Gale’s. I swore 
on my honour that Gale was all right. Why, he’s 
cabled-” 

What was the use of talking to him, of arguing? 
He had better find out, better learn his lesson. 

“I don’t want to hear any more, Hal.” 

“But confound it all, Nita-” 

Wearily she shook her head. 

“I can’t stand this heat. I must get back to the 
Danieli where I can lie down.” 

“But look here, Nita, she’s invited us to a party 
to-morrow night. Promised we’d go. I do think 
it’s the least you can do.” He tried to bluster. 

“We’ll see to-morrow.” Hot, stabbing pains in 
her eyes, in her head. “Coming?” She didn’t care 
whether he came with her or not. 

He hung back a moment. The Contessa was no¬ 
where in sight. 

“I thought we’d lunch here. But—oh, hang it all, 
I’ll trot along.” With a remnant of his swagger, he 
followed her. 




GLAMOUR 


259 


4 

She stood alone in the large open window of the 
salon on the top floor of the Palazzo Fabbia. No 
one noticed her. Her little smile was gallant as a 
red pennant still flying over a foundering ship—a 
small ship that has sailed through pitiless seas. 
Venice stole in through the window; Venice of in¬ 
trigue and carnival, of masked foreign faces; Venice 
blended with the painted rafters, the old gilt and 
glass of the softly lit room. 

She never would have come to the Contessa’s party 
had not Hal jubilantly informed her at the last 
moment that Gale’s money having arrived he meant 
to buy the necklace that very evening. Why this 
evening? Ever since yesterday’s talk at the Lido, 
Mr. Gale had avoided her. She didn’t trust him, 
and there had been no answer from Rome to her 
telegram. 

She should have warned Hal before leaving the 
hotel. No matter how deeply he had wounded her, 
she should have warned him against Gale. Her 
fears, obscure, intangible, increased with every mo¬ 
ment she stood by the window and watched him strut 
among the Contessa’s guests, advertising himself as 
host. The necklace in its oblong faded red box was 
actually in his pocket. It seemed as if the jewels 
must blaze through the stuff of his coat and magi¬ 
cally fly to the slim painted throat of a great Fabbia 
lady on the wall. 


26 o 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


Had Gale arrived? Yes, there he was in the hall, 
talking to another man, unmistakably American. 

Evidently his business could wait until later in 
the evening when the hostess could better be spared; 
and rotten business it was, however you looked at it! 

With her back to him, the Contessa stood framed 
in the doorway, Hal ruddily beside her. Any woman 
who called herself dressed for the evening in a few 
yards of light green chiffon and rhinestone shoulder 
straps deserved to be disgraced. 

At sight of them so close together, passion 
tightened in her as for a spring. It wouldn’t take 
much—not very much—to turn Nita Brassington- 
Welsh into a primitive creature ready to fight for 
her mate. The taste of salt in her mouth, the feel 
of blood pounding— She must stop this. 

The evening’s entertainment had begun. A young 
man, all arms and eyes, drew out from his violin a 
weird melody that grated on the nerves. Exotic 
faces, bare shoulders, stuffs, jewels, pale shirt fronts 
gleamed from the shadows. She felt caught as in 
the disquieting atmosphere of an aquarium where 
flowered strange, cruel plants. 

Better not look at them. She leaned out of the 
window. Dark, dreamy water and stars like a field 
of narcissus, cool, fragrant. Nothing for her any¬ 
where. How they had sunk and sunk! Yet since 
there was no going back ever to youth and security, 
let them at least keep to their own cheap world, pick 
up what scraps they could in the beaten track of 


GLAMOUR 


261 

hotels and cafes, where a swagger, a drink and a 
cigar still imposed; where she could still help along 
with the trained curl of her wide red mouth. They 
were too old and coarsened to maneuvre in this 
rarefied air of titles and jewels. 

A gondola stole softly alongside the crumbling 
stone steps of the palazzo. She gazed down, lean¬ 
ing far out of the window. There was luggage in 
the gondola, and a tall veiled figure that rose and 
stared up at the windows. 

The Marchesa Fabbia, answering in person the 
telegram! Her heart ran faster, faster, like foot¬ 
steps of one fleeing in the night. Panic fastened 
upon her. Now they were in for it. She drew back 
from the window, steadying herself, a hand on the 
yellow brocaded curtain. 

A last wailing note floated from the violin. A 
thin patter of applause. People drifted from couches 
and chairs, scattered in the hall, in the adjoining din¬ 
ing room. Not a moment to lose. She brushed 
rudely past groups, a flushed little woman in black 
crepe-de-chine, whose eyes and lips were her only 
jewels. Bumped into a woman with a great mass of 
short white hair like a wilting chrysanthemum, a 
woman in a tailor suit with the Legion of Honour, 
a wicked old woman in wig and diamonds. 

She must find Hal. He was not in the library, 
where couples, slim and elegant, whispered in painted 
alcoves. Nor was he in the dining-room, with its 
coloured Venetian lustres and mellow old portraits. 


262 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


But there was the Contessa at the far end near the 
buffet. Ah, and there was Gale and his friend stand¬ 
ing whispering in a corner. Odd that Major Brass- 
ington-Welsh should not be here, holding forth be¬ 
side the punch bowl! 

Only one more doorway, curtained with tapestry. 

In the dim light of a lamp, she made him out 
against the rose walls of the small room. He sat 
gloomily hunched over a glass of whiskey beside 
him on an inlaid desk, and a long cigar, unlighted, 
clenched between his teeth. Sulking! He raised his 
head to glower at her. 

“What d’you want ? I’m waiting for Gale.” 

He wasn’t going to make it easy. She came closer, 
her voice trembling a little. “We’ve always been 
good pals, haven’t we?” Her hand went out, 
touched him. “Look at me, Hal!” 

He looked with moody, bloodshot eyes. 

“Yes,” she said sadly. “I’m not so young any 
longer. But then neither are you, Hal. It’s begin¬ 
ning to tell.” 

He moved uneasily, his eyes shifted. He didn’t 
wish to think of these things now. 

“I don’t see—” he muttered. 

“Oh, Hal!” she cried in pity for themselves, and 
she knelt beside him. “We’ve made such a mess of 
it all between us. We’ll never come out unless we 
stand close together; very, very close as we used to. 
And even then-” 

“For Heaven’s sake, Nita—” He glanced over 



GLAMOUR 263 

her shoulder. Afraid someone would find them 
there. Then awkwardly he laid a hand on her bowed 
head. “It’s all in the game, old girl.” 

“What a game!” she sighed, rising to stand before 
him. 

He knew he was old—as old as that pitiless game 
that was nearly played out. 

“Hal, I’m going to tell you something I should 
have told you before.” She spoke gravely. “I 
meant to punish you, and so I—” Now she faltered. 
Once more she saw night upon the canal, the 
moon colouring Venice; heard the music mingled 
with her intolerable loneliness; saw Hal and the 
Contessa gliding away from her; saw them framed 
in the old doorway, Gale talking. Once more she 
felt the cruel beat of sun on the beach, and the 
Contessa scornful, mocking, goading her on. The 
telegram. Gale’s warning sounded again. 

Her voice came hurried, frightened. The 
Marchesa Fabbia was here—yes, in the palazzo, in 
her own apartments. She, Nita, had done this. 

“Don’t you see what it means, Hal? Don’t you 
see?” 

He was upon her, gripping her arm, hurting her. 
Heavy with rage, veins darkly swollen, pulses beat¬ 
ing, he stammered, “I don’t believe it! It’s a dam¬ 
nable plot!” 

Roughly he pushed her aside and was at the door¬ 
way. She ran stumbling after him. 

“Hal, wait! What are you-?” 



THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


264 

For a moment they faced each other. Then with 
a savage “I’m going to tell her,” he flung out of the 
room. 

No, it didn’t matter what happened. Sit here 
and wait. For what? She dragged herself to a 
chair. Gay voices reached her, muffled by the 
tapestry curtain. Life went on and on. You went 
with it while you could, and when you were riddled 
with holes you sank. Well, she had done her best. 
If she were no longer needed- 

Hal back again. How long had she been sitting 
here? She raised her head to stare at him. The 
dreadful colour had ebbed from his face. Without a 
word he crossed over to the glass of whiskey on the 
desk, snatched it up, emptied it. Then, “I wish to 
Heaven you had let things alone, Nita.” 

He stood gazing sombrely down at her. She 
drooped in her chair, weary, forlorn. “I wish to 
Heaven I had.” 

He wasn’t going to tell her what had happened 
between him and the Contessa. But something had 
happened. She watched his tall figure, black and 
white, move in the vague soft light of the lamp. 
He paced to and fro. Music. The piano, a woman’s 
voice reached her faintly, evoking the large salon of 
painted rafters, the shadowy guests. He wheeled 
around by the window, thumb and forefinger twitch¬ 
ing at his moustache. 

“They’ve fixed it up between them—Gale and that 
old gorgon—to ruin her,” he broke out. “You’ve 



GLAMOUR 


265 

done your bit. I hope you’re satisfied. But I tell 
you they shan’t do it! I’ll wring that fellow’s neck 
first! m-” 

“So you believe her?” 

It was hopeless. If he didnt’ see- 

“Believe her?” he shouted. “Of course I believe 
her! What’s more, I’m going through with this 
thing. I told her so.” In chivalrous wrath, his 
chest expanded, his shoulders squared, his voice with 
the old defiant roar filled the room. “She begged 
me for my own sake to give her back the necklace. 
It was all a plant to ruin her, she said. She hasn’t 
a scrap of proof that the old woman asked her to 
sell that necklace. It’s a plant, I tell you!” he 
stormed. “A plant, and she didn’t want to let me 
in for it, she said. Even offered me a compensation. 
Think I’d take a cent from her?” His fist crashed 
down on a small table? “I tell you, I’m goin’ to 
show Gale up! I’m goin’ through with it! I’m 
goin’ to-” 

“Hal, don’t make such a noise.” 

Drearily she ordered herself into action. Some¬ 
one must take care of him. 

“But I tell you, Nita—” he began again. 

“Do keep quiet!” 

Surely she wasn’t mistaken! There had been 
a slight sound in the hall. Tiptoe to the curtain. 
She stood rigidly listening. The doors of the dining¬ 
room and the salon must be closed, for song and 
voices sounded far away. All the clearer the light, 





266 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


furtive footsteps outside. Someone in a hurry. 
Strange that prickly sensation of nerves warning her 
—warning. Pull aside the curtain! 

A short indrawn breath and she was in the hall, 
her fingers gripping the Contessa’s wrist. So this 
was the woman Hal believed in—this creature hatted 
and cloaked, and carrying a small valise! Stealing 
out of the house. Leaving Hal- 

“Let me go, you little fool.” A low voice, un¬ 
recognisable, a lithe body straining to get away. 

Try that, would she? Try—try then! Twist 
that wrist until it hurt. 

“You’ll see Hal first.” She was youthful and 
strong with hating. 

A silent moment of struggle. Then they were in 
the room, the heavy curtain dropped behind them. 
Hal stood stupidly gaping. 

“Will you let me go?” the Contessa still whis¬ 
pered, glancing over her shoulder. 

“You see, Hal? You see what she is?” 

“I don’t understand.” Hal could hardly speak. 
He stood staring at the valise. The Contessa with 
a violent movement tried to break away. 

“Hal, get by the door! Now, you’d better tell 
us what we’re in for.” 

They were in for something very serious! Instinct 
sent that message swiftly through her veins. She 
was gathered to meet it, every sense sharpened, 
alert. 



GLAMOUR 267 

“In for? Gaol, thanks to your bungling!” The 
Contessa fairly spat it out. 

Gaol! You always got caught in the end—in the 
end. Gaol! Her nightmare of all these years. 
The touch of this woman sickened her. She loosened 
her grasp, and heard herself as from a distance. 
“But surely the Marchesa won’t-” 

“My mother-in-law?” 

With a low, ugly laugh, the Contessa pulled free 
and made for Hal, who stood motionless, his back 
to the curtain. He stood, his face blotched and 
ghastly, his eyes staring. 

“Give me my necklace and let me go.” 

But Hal didn’t move. His bulk blocked the 
doorway. 

“Why?” 

His voice came choked from somewhere deep in 
his throat. The Contessa laid a hand on his arm. 
He trembled, clenching, unclenching his big hands. 

“Do you know who your Mr. Gale is?” She spoke 
swiftly. “I thought I’d seen him somewhere. And 
to-night when you told me—I remembered—years 
ago in Chicago. He’s attorney for Dreser, the 
jeweller. If you won’t give me the necklace, let 
me go—let me go.” She was pleading now, trying 
to edge past him. 

Not so fast. She had Nita Brassington-Welsh to 
reckon with. 

“I still don’t understand.” 

“Pretty innocent, aren’t you?” Then it came like 



268 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


a torrent, muddy, turbulent—a rush of words. 
“What your husband’s got is a copy of the Fabbia 
necklace. Those jewels in it were stolen from 
Dreser’s. My job was to get rid of them. Get that? 
And you, you fool, played into Gale’s hands.” Under 
the flame of her hair, her face glared, pinched and 
white. “I must have been mad not to recognise him. 
I was warned they were watching me. Now, will 
you let me go?” 

“My God!” Hal covered his eyes with his hands. 

“Steady, old boy.” 

His Nita beside him. Rally her wits. Give up the 
necklace? Let the woman go? Gale would come 
down on Hal. Run themselves? A confession of 
guilt. 

She moved closer to Hal, a little in front of him. 
Hold that woman’s eyes with her green eyes nar¬ 
rowed. Hold her attention. 

“You can’t get out. There’s a better way-” 

A better way—a better way. Her brain worked 
swiftly, darting in and out, hurling itself against 
prison walls, recoiling to seek another way. Her 
hand crept softly up to Hal’s coat, her fingers nimble 
as thieves. Which pocket? She had it from him. 
The feel of the old velvet box turned her faint. 

“Take off that hat and coat,” she ordered the 
Contessa. “Hide your valise behind a chair—any¬ 
where. I’ll have to save you to save ourselves.” 

The Contessa stared at her, stared at Hal, who 
still blocked the doorway. Mechanically her hand 



GLAMOUR 


269 

went to her throat, unclasping her fur collar. The 
delicate features seemed to have shrunk. Her lips 
were a thin scarlet line. 

“What are you going to do?” 

At the coarsened note of that voice, HaPs hands 
dropped to his sides. He watched her throw off her 
velvet toque, stoop to thrust her valise out of sight. 

“Serves me right for having anything to do with 
you.” She eyed him viciously. “You cheap old 
adventurer—you! Your wife has more brains in 
her little finger than you in all your clumsy body.” 

Quick, while they weren’t watching, slip out the 
necklace. Drop the box on the floor. Shove it with 
her foot under that bookcase. The jewels lay cold, 
hidden, on her breast. 

The Contessa swept again toward the door. 

“At least allow me to go back to my guests.” 

Her resigned air didn’t deceive. She meant to 
sneak out. Halfway across the room she stopped, 
her long willowy body in green chiffon swaying back¬ 
ward as if someone had pushed her. 

The tapestry curtain was drawn aside. A tall, a 
terrifying old lady in a black satin evening gown 
stood peering into the room, a tortoise-shell lorgn¬ 
ette raised to her fierce old eyes. And it was as 
if all the Fabbias had descended from their frames 
and were gathered around her, haughtily staring. 

“What does this mean, Olga ?” Her English was 
chilly and perfect. “I received a most extraordinary 
telegram.” 


270 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


You could see the Contessa bracing herself to 
answer. Let her explain if she could! If Hal would 
only pull himself together. 

“Hal, dear, buck up.” Her whisper reached him. 

There was a God who wouldn’t let poor old Hal 
—there was a God who cared. She had for¬ 
gotten— 

She felt Hal straighten under her touch. After 
all, the blood of the Brassingtons- 

She knew now what she must risk. It came to her 
with the flash of inspiration. One chance—one 
only. It mustn’t fail. 

Nita Moffett, of Stamford, young as all gallant 
things—a Nita who comes forth from the secret 
places of her faith; a Nita, shy, brave, her wide red 
mouth lifting her face into radiance. And there was 
a pause between the Marchesa Fabbia and her 
daughter-in-law, because of this shy, this brave little 
greenish gold woman in black. 

“Madame, I sent that telegram. Please let me 
tell you—” Not afraid of lorgnettes, or of the 
fierce old eyes behind them. “Please—” No mat¬ 
ter the powder and rouge of Mrs. Brassington- 
Welsh. So she had smiled long ago. 

The Marchesa Fabbia looked at her. 

“Madame, my husband, Major Brassington- 
Welsh.” She thought of Brassington Hall, and her 
head lifted higher. 

The Marchesa looked at Hal, and grimly she sat 
herself down in the nearest chair. 




GLAMOUR 


271 

“What have you to tell me, Madame—Brassing- 
ton-Welsh?” 

She met the eagle glare of that proud old face 
with its aquiline nose. Not only Hal hut the Fab- 
bias to save from shame. 

“Your daughter-in-law did try to sell your neck¬ 
lace.” Look at the Contessa now, backed against 
the rose wall. Afraid, was she? Well, there was 
more to come. “But you see”—and confidingly she 
met the Fabbia eyes—“I didn’t think you’d want her 
to. So-” 

Doors opening. Voices in the hall. The concert 
was over, and any moment Gale- 

Smile at Hal as she slipped behind the Marchesa’s 
chair. Her breath came short and swift. 

“And so—here it is I” 

With a deft gesture, she clasped the necklace 
around the old lady’s neck. In the soft light of the 
room, diamonds and rubies glittered with a subdued 
lustre as if tamed by that proud neck of old ivory. 
The carved gold of the setting took on shadows, took 
to itself an illusion of ancient times. Who would 
dare dispute its right to be there? 

In the doorway appeared Mr. Gale. You could 
see behind him in the hall the other man, waiting. 

“Ah, Major, I’ve been looking for you every¬ 
where.” Gale’s eye was fixed on Hal. 

Only a second to risk her last stake. She leaned 
to whisper to the grim, motionless old lady. “Please 
—oh, please, whatever happens, don’t take it off.” 




272 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


The Marchesa gave no sign of having heard. 
Disdainful, erect, she sat there, her lorgnette lifted 
for a chilly inspection of the intruder. 

Hal didn’t move, didn’t speak. He would spoil 
it all. She must act quickly. Her little smile carried 
her forward. 

“Do come in, Mr. Gale. I’m afraid Hal has a 
great disappointment for you, haven’t you, Hal?” 

Give him no time to answer. Mr. Gale’s shrewd 
eyes had travelled. He stopped short, his gaze 
rivetted on the stately figure in the chair. 

Mrs. Brassington-Welsh, bright and gracious, 
doing the honours. “You know the Marchesa Fab- 
bia, of course, since you’re representing her interests 
here?” 

“Representing my interests ? What nonsense! I 
never saw this person before. Who is he?” The 
Marchesa’s voice interrupted, thin, imperious. 

The Contessa turned as if she understood. 

Act up, Nita, as never in your life before! 

“Why, I thought—how very strange of you, Mr. 
Gale, to have pretended to me—” She stepped 
up to him. They faced each other as on an open 
field. Enemies. “The Marchesa Fabbia has 
changed her mind. She no longer wishes to sell.” 

Her head flung back, she looked him full in the 
eyes and smiled. She was ready for the return look 
he gave her. A hard, pitiless man who judged her. 
But she held her ground, backing between him and 
the Marchesa as brusquely he marched forward. 


GLAMOUR 


273 

“Madam,” he said, and pointed, “is that your 
necklace?” 

The old lady drew herself up, the race of Fabbias 
in her voice, in her eyes. 

“And whose necklace should it be? I am wearing 
it.” 

“I’d like to examine it,” Mr. Gale insisted, and 
stretched out his hand. 

Her strength must not fail her now. Her voice 
rang sharp and clear. 

“Be careful, Mr. Gale! You’re speaking to the 
Marchesa Fabbia. You have no warrant to touch 
her.” 

Hal coming forward. She saw him as in a dream. 
Heard him. “It can’t be done, Gale.” 

It couldn’t. Her poor heart, like a weary sentinel 
relieved, seemed to stagger, recover. Then the 
Marchesa Fabbia spoke. 

“Olga, ring and have this man shown out.” 

The Contessa languidly drifted forward. You 
would never have thought, looking at her, that only 
a few moments ago, her beauty ravaged, her ugly 
soul laid bare, she had stood in this room, trapped, 
desperate. To have saved that creature in saving 
Hal! Nausea rose up in her. 

“Mrs. Brassington-Welsh, may I have a word 
with you?” Gale’s voice, hard, unyielding. His 
small, tight face stiff in defeat, he was at her elbow. 

Slowly she walked with him to the curtained door- 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


274 

way, where he wheeled about, thrusting his face 
close to hers. 

“I warned you once,” he said, hardly lowering his 
voice. “There’s where I made my mistake. You 
were in with them all the time. You’re a bit too 
clever, madam.” His small eyes bored through and 
through her. “But I’m not done yet. I’ve had your 
records looked up. You’ll be watched in every city 
of Europe if I have anything to do with it, and 
sooner or later they’ll get you—sure. Good 
evening.” 

He turned on his heels and was gone. 

He meant it. Wherever they went from now 
on- 

The Contessa was moving toward the door with 
an insolent—“If you don’t mind. I think there has 
been enough scandal for one evening. I must go 
back to my guests.” 

The sight of the flaming hair and of those thin, 
mocking lips was like the cut of a lash. Passion 
lifted her on its last stormy wave. 

“You leave Venice,” she said. 

“As you please, carina” And the Contessa 
laughed. “We may meet on the same train.” Slim, 
white and shining in her green draperies, she stood 
poised against the tapestry. Then with a light, 
taunting, “Take care of the Major; he needs it,” 
she slipped out. 

The Marchesa Fabbia sat on in her chair as if 
she had seen nothing, heard nothing. Hal stood in a 



GLAMOUR 


275 

corner like an old sick tree stripped of its leaves. She 
walked across the room as if she carried a great 
burden and feared to stumble. 

“Madame, I didn’t tell you the truth,” she said. 
“When your—when the Contessa leaves this house, 
you must send that necklace you’re wearing to Mr. 
Gale at the Grand Hotel. It—it isn’t yours.” 

“Do you think I’m blind?” The thin old voice 
rose with a little quaver, and the Marchesa Fabbia 
opened a velvet bag that had lain on her knee. “My 
necklace is here.” And the eyes of a Fabbia met the 
eyes of Nita Brassington-Welsh. 

“We can go now, Hal.” 

He floundered from his corner. Take his arm. 
He leaned heavily against her. 

“Nita—oh, Nita!” he tried to whisper. 

“Come.” She urged him along. 

One glance back as they reached the door. The 
Marchesa Fabbia sat erect, proudly isolated, like an 
ancient portrait that has hung for generations look¬ 
ing down at life and death. 


CHAPTER VIII 


HOME 

I 

G HASTLY days of wondering what they would 
do next. Hal sick to the very heart of him, 
his vanity shattered, his nerve gone. A cheap 
old adventurer, his Contessa had called him. That’s 
what he was, he muttered over and over to himself. 
Now what was there left? Gale would keep his 
word. Wherever they went on the Continent, what¬ 
ever they did, they would be watched, and it wouldn’t 
take much watching to get Hal if he played any 
more of his little games. 

Well, they could jump into a canal, or blow their 
tired brains out with Hal’s old army pistol. Not 
a very appealing programme when you came right 
down to it. There was one other way out—just 
one. Thank Heaven, she had taken it. 

But it was the hardest thing she had ever done 
in her life—cabling her mother for money to come 
home. Even then she had not told the truth. Hal 
was sick, and in temporary financial difficulties. That 
was not so far from the truth either. 

How had she ever managed? Pleading with Hal, 
276 


HOME 


277 


driving him by force of her will, the lash of her 
tongue, the passion of her tears—getting him from 
Venice to Paris, from Paris to Havre; getting him 
on the boat where he collapsed. What a trip it was 
with its crowding poignant memories of that other 
trip so long ago when life had seemed brilliant with 
love and promise! 

It was only when they landed that Hal pulled 
himself together with an effort. He couldn’t bear 
to have her mother know. Let her spare him that 
final humiliation, and he swore he would do his 
best to pick up and make a fresh start. Perhaps he 
was right. Now that they were safe—and they 
were safe! 

She smiled across the dinner table at her mother. 

Yes, that actually was her mother, that plump, 
energetic little woman in grey silk. 

A great longing came over her to push back her 
chair and run to fling her arms around her mother’s 
neck before them all and to cry, “Mother, you’ve 
been so good to us. It’s wonderful of you to have 
us here. But, oh if you knew! If you knew the 
beastly life we’ve led all these years. If you knew 
the things Hal and I have done—!” Well, and then 
what? Shame and scandal and no one any the better 
for it. Lucky, though, that Mrs. Lucas had moved 
away two years ago to be with Katharine and Craw¬ 
ford. 

It was such a very nice party. Surrounding her, 
the pleasant faces of neighbours were like bright 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


278 

windows through which she saw herself as she once 
was—Anita Moffett—brightly moving among their 
memories of her. Her smile grew more vivid, more 
alluring. In the pink shaded candle-light she was 
conscious that she looked her best in the black 
crepe-de-chine she had worn on other and different 
nights. Better not think of them. Yet they were 
with her as echoes of the sea in a transplanted shell. 
The diminished surge of foreign sounds, the vague 
nostalgia for foreign songs and scents throbbed 
faintly in her blood. She caught Hal’s reddish eye 
and the slight comical grimace he directed at his 
glass of water. Rather a joke on him not having 
his wine. Ice-cream, ice-water, pink sugared sweets 
in silver dishes, white cap and apron on the flat¬ 
faced Polish maid. A change for Major and Mrs. 
Brassington-Welsh. 

“Yes, we hope to stay on indefinitely, if mother 
will have us.” Fascinating Mrs. Brassington-Welsh 
smiling at Roger Mason. He reminded her of a 
small bottle of some sweet effervescent drink. A 
Sunday picnic. 

Mrs. Mason, in girlish blue, sat opposite. She 
made one think of sunny rooms, and babies, and a 
Dodge sedan. Ah well, that too was a relief. 

“Toppin’ sport. I remember one day the Maha¬ 
rajah—Maj, we called him—sent around one of his 
pet elephants for us. Strappin’ old bird all got up 
in gold and silks. And my pal, Bibby, Lord Baild- 
ing, you know—” Hal was at it again. 


HOME 


279 

The first yellow tulips from the tiny garden 
gleamed on the lace centre-piece her mother had 
bought in the dim gentle days of a honeymoon in 
Italy. Strange how all these things—doilies, flow¬ 
ered dessert plates, silver on the old dark sideboard 
against the faded green of walls, the bow-legged 
chairs and oval table, had remained on faithful to 
Stamford and Moffett ideals, while she- 

Hal’s laugh rumbled out, leading a chorus of 
lighter sound. Roger Mason and the Collins boy 
on her left craned their necks forward. Sit back 
in her chair and give Hal his audience. Watching 
this high coloured jovial English gentleman boom¬ 
ing away, who would dream that only a few hours 
ago, in spotted dressing gown and shabby pumps, 
he lay sprawling on his bed, fretfully yawning! 
Who would ever believe that only that morning he 
had borrowed five dollars from the gardener? Not 
the first time either that she had caught him bor¬ 
rowing small sums while he boasted of his English 
property and of the confounded nuisance of delayed 
funds. Ah well, one had to have pocket money! 

It took so little to fill him out and set him sailing 
in fitful gusts of his old heartiness. He was in fine 
creative form to-night. Pleased with himself, 
pleased with the effect Major Brassington-Welsh 
could make on such an honest company. Clever, 
too, the way he shaped his anecdotes to float bril¬ 
liantly in the decent air. 

“Most ’straordinary fellow! Used to toddle 



28 o 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


around after the Duchess tryin’ to save her wicked 
old soul. And then one day she got him to put a 
pound on 13—roulette, you know, and-” 

She had been expecting this story of the good 
young man at Monte Carlo. Not quite an accurate 
version, but spicy enough as he rounded it off to 
thrill most delightfully Mrs. Moffett, Mrs. Mason 
and Matilda Lacy. 

That dear jolly creature, John Morrison, was 
twinkling at her—his little sweetheart, as he used 
to call her once upon a time. How he had loved 
her father! He sat now at her mother’s right, 
a big childlike man with lungs made for laughter 
and the heart of a boy. She felt herself warm and 
grateful as she sparkled back at him. What a beau¬ 
tiful white his hair had grown, and how clear and 
pink his skin! That was what came of being decent 
in this world. Heigho! Easy enough when one 
had all that money. 

Odd that he should have so obviously taken to 
Hal. You could tell by the way he had listened, 
nodding and chuckling, all during dinner. And Hal 
had played up to him. Trust Hal for that. If it 
had been anywhere but in her mother’s house, she 
might have worried. No danger. Hal wasn’t likely 
to try any of his shady tricks here. Poor worn out 
old thing. Sometimes he reminded her of a crumb¬ 
ling tunnel through which a train occasionally roared 
—a huge noise and then forlorn emptiness. 

The noise was there as he launched on another 



HOME 


281 


anecdote—something about a trip he had once taken 
in the Balkans. Prodigious the way he could handle 
the globe, patching one place over another, cutting 
and snipping pieces out of the map to suit his ex¬ 
ploits. The room was silent, everyone listening. 

She had never heard him talk quite like this; 
as if he were evoking images, scenes, sounds for 
himself alone; as if, among them all, he suddenly 
were alone. He had forgotten even her—even his 
Nita. She felt hot adventure coursing through him. 
It reached her own veins and tingled like a pain. 
How thin he looked and restless, with feverish spots 
on his cheeks, his large nose jutting sharply out, and 
his black hair streaked with grey. 

He told of white houses, and dust, and swift little 
horses pounding past villages where gaunt wolf dogs 
howled at night; of peasants dancing and singing, 
flowers behind their ears. He told of oil, and 
wheat, and coal, and dangerous stupid hates that 
bided their time along the thin lines of frontiers. 
Of kings and queens. 

Bucharest, with its cafes, and Tziganes, and pre¬ 
tentious gaiety, like a vicious child aping its elders; 
with its treacly-eyed, over-tailored young men, who 
sat gossiping of women while they sipped syrups 
and cocktails at Capsa’s- 

Belgrade, looking like a Midway Plaisance a week 
after the Fair, with its glum suspicious people, its 
ambition, its German, its dirty hotels and homesick 
Americans. Dinner at the Serbski Krahl-- 




282 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


And now he was travelling in aeroplanes through 
wind storms over the cities of the world, peering 
down at the land which lay like old worn velvet 
embroidered with the silver of rivers. Ah, it was 
a great life-! 

Really now, but really, he was going too high, 
too far, leaving her behind. All very well for him 
to hypnotise her mother’s guests, but he was hypno¬ 
tising himself. 

She stirred in her chair. She sent out to him the 
silent secret message of her will, electric between 
them. He turned and her green eyes, deliberately 
mocking, met his. Her wise little smile was like a 
wire stretched along his headlong course to trip him. 

His flight had taken him to Buda-Pesth where he 
was just landing. He landed abruptly under her 
cynical gaze. He flushed a darker red, and his hand 
trembled as he lifted a glass of water. “I’ve been 
making a bally ass of myself,” he muttered. And 
that nervous self-conscious look of recent months 
gathered about his brow, and would not be lifted 
even by protestations from every side, John Mor¬ 
rison’s the loudest. 

Cruel of her. Mutely she apologised. He felt 
he had a grievance. He was going to sulk. Well, 
she had only meant to protect him. He knew per¬ 
fectly well that he couldn’t be trusted when he let 
himself go. 

Her mother, sweetly reluctant to interrupt, gave 
the hostess signal. Hal rose heavily. His face was 



HOME 2S3 

all folds and wrinkles like a sail that has lost its 
wind and, suddenly showing the marks of wear, the 
sad stains and creases, waits for another wind to 
smooth and round it out again. Her heart yearned 
toward him. But he wouldn’t look at her. 

“It’s a great experience to listen to your hus¬ 
band,” Matilda Lacy, small and bony in her ruffled 
pink dress, took her by the hand. “My dear, what 
a lucky girl you are!” Behind her glasses, her little 
eyes seemed to be swimming around and around like 
fishes trying to get out of a pool. 

Yes—rather. Of course she was lucky. 

“Your husband makes me feel as if I had missed 
a lot.” Roger Mason was walking with her to the 
door. 

“You must come over some time.” She said it 
as if she were inviting him for a week-end at her 
country house. 

Sorry she had been mean to Hal. But the slight¬ 
est thing upset him these days. She lingered alone 
in the hall, a wistful little woman feeling homely 
memories flow about her. The stiff backed chair 
by the door on which her father had always left 
bundles, the dark carved chest with its nicked edge, 
the Colonial mirror hanging always a bit crooked, 
and the brown stairs leading to the narrow upper 
hall—they all spoke to her. Hal was too big for 
this house. You could hear him through walls and 
ceilings—his heavy step, the rumble of his voice. 
He made you think of a caged animal with that 


284 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

trick of his of tramping up and down—a scarred 
old fighter who has been in many traps. 

He and Morrison had not yet left the dining 
room. Through the green plush portieres she saw 
them standing by the table, solemnly engaged in 
clipping and lighting two handsome cigars, the kind 
Hal, in his prosperous days, had lavishly handed 
around to chance acquaintances. With such a prop, 
his moustache seemed to take on a bolder curve, his 
cheeks a ruddier tone. 

“I was much interested in your account of the 
Balkans, Major,” John Morrison was saying as if 
he had known Hal all his life. Her father, who 
Heaven only knew was naive enough, used to re¬ 
proach his old friend for being of a too trusting 
nature. Well, there was humour of a sort in the 
attraction between these two men. She liked to watch 
them together. 

Here was Ilka waddling along with the coffee 
tray. Stupid girl. Smile at her prettily. “Oh, yes, 
Ilka—the coffee? Serve it on the porch, please.” 

Better join the others. 

“We sent one of our men to Belgrade last sum¬ 
mer and-” 

“Belgrade! My dear fellow, I can tell you all 
about it.” Hal sounded the generous note of com¬ 
radeship. “Intimate friend of mine, Colonel Wat¬ 
kins—ever heard of him?—has one of the biggest 
banks in-” 




HOME 285 

“Nita—coffee, dear.” Her mother’s voice drifted 
from the porch. 

“Coffee—Hal,” she brightly repeated, sparkling 
at them from the doorway. 

“Coming in a moment, dear thing.” Hal turned 
an abstracted eye. Not to be interrupted if he 
knew it. 

She turned slowly and went through the hall, 
through the sitting room to the shadowy group on 
the adjoining porch. She stood framed in the door, 
the light from the sitting-room catching the greenish 
gold of her hair, her wide mouth like a red flower 
in the dusk. And there must have been something 
exotic, something faintly troubling and foreign about 
her, for there was a silence broken by Miss Lacy’s 
friendly chirp—“I declare, Nita, you’re younger 
than ever.” 

“Am I?” That made her feel old. She settled 
on a stool at her mother’s knee to sip the coffee 
that the Collins boy brought to her. “Hal and 
Mr. Morrison are entrenched in the dining-room 
and won’t be pried out.” She let herself sink lazily 
into the kindly atmosphere. Nothing to fear. 

A spring wind fanned her cheeks, brought scents 
of growing things sharp in the night. She thought 
of narcissus, and those neat neighbourly little lawns 
with their flower beds, and white curtained win¬ 
dows across the road. Windows warm with lamp¬ 
light. The young moon was sharp in a sky of 
spring. The maple tree swollen with buds that 


286 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


seemed to be bursting with the twitter of birds. It 
was good to be back. It was good. 

“You take it and melt it and when your jelly’s 
cold, you pour it in—” Her mother’s comfortable 
voice went on and on. And shyly her mother’s 
hand stroked her hair as she moved her stool closer. 

This was the way it should be on a spring night. 
On other porches other groups of people sitting and 
talking, rocking gently in swings. Hundreds of them. 
Hundreds. Rows of houses with porches and lawns, 
and the flutter of light gowns as young girls flitted 
out on the road. Phonographs, laughter, neat little 
cars skimming by. She thought of Paris in spring¬ 
time—the Seine, colour of white grapes, the horse- 
chestnut trees, violets, and green almonds, and the 
smells that prickled through your blood, and the 
cafes opening like flowers, and lovers curved like 
the young moon. Oh, why had their life been so 
ugly? 

“Asleep, Nita?” someone teased. 

“I tell you the League of Nations is the only 
answer. Why, those fellows over there—” Mor¬ 
rison must have quietly joined them while she sat 
dreaming. He stood on the porch steps, a broad 
solid shape, white hair and shirt front gleaming. 
Where was Hal? 

“Anita dear, don’t you think you could play for us 
a little?’’ Her mother bending down. That fa¬ 
miliar face close to hers, the fine puckers about the 


HOME 287 

large pale mouth and the faded loving eyes. How 
sweet it was! 

“Oh, yes, do.” 

“Didn’t you used to sing, Nita?” 

They were fond of her. They admired her. She 
was different, very different—more apart from them 
than they could ever know. But they had warmed 
the frozen waters, and lit dark corners with their 
friendliness. And she was grateful to them. “I’m 
afraid I’ve forgotten.” She knew she wanted to 
play at this hour as she rose from her stool, and 
flashed the radiance of Nita Moffett’s smile. 

“We’ll sit out here and listen.” How pleased her 
mother was! A successful party. 

Her fingers craved the stained ivory of the old 
piano. Put out the lights in the sitting-room, all 
except one, the corner lamp of poppy red. In that 
shabby leather armchair near the empty fireplace 
her father, slender and patient, used to sit after 
dinner, and while she played to him, he would close 
his eyes. Anita Moffett, yearning for the wide, wide 
world, yearning for romance and adventure, sitting 
at the piano through winter, through summer eve¬ 
nings. Nita Brassington-Welsh sitting there now 
with the bitterness of secret knowledge locked in 
the secret places. Never the same—never again. 

Could she play? A bowl of tulips on the piano, 
the old remembered things that peopled the room 
seemed to creep closer, to listen and encourage. Her 


288 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


fingers went shyly to the keys, seeking them. The 
wasted years—the countries—she and Hal— Oh 
weary, weary of adventuring. And now- 

“Under the wide and starry sky, 

Dig the grave and let me lie.” 

She sang softly, her head tilted back, her eyes 
half-closed. And she thought of Hal as once he 
had been, dashing and gay; of the long road they 
had trod together, the road that twisted through 
murky places. And while they were young there 
was glamour in never knowing. But now they were 
no longer young. 

“Home is the sailor, home from sea, 

And the hunter home from the hill.” 

Her voice faltered. Her hands on the keys went 
soft and limp. Why was she sad? “And the hunter 
home from the hill.” 

“That’s bully,” came from Roger Mason. And 
there were other voices, her mother’s, John Mor¬ 
rison’s suggesting old favourites, and young Col¬ 
lins’—“What about a fox-trot, Mrs. Brassington- 
Welsh?” 

But the voice she listened for wasn’t among them. 
And her heart was so grateful, so tender and sad 
with music that she wanted her man. She wanted 
to look at the secret map of his face, tracing the 



HOME 


289 

years, the sins and follies, the frustrated aspira¬ 
tions, the recklessness, wistfulness, kindliness, and 
the love of her that was there for her to see. 

“I’ll have to practice up, I’m afraid.” She ap¬ 
peared before them, brightly apologetic. But her 
eyes went questing about. “Where’s Hal?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Her mother sounded 
the least bit reproachful. “He told Mr. Morrison 
he was coming right along.” 

“He went to find a report on recent imports to 
the Balkans to show me.” Morrison spoke up 
eagerly. Frightfully keen on Hal, that was obvious. 

“Well, I’d better go and hunt for him.” They 
called after her. Pretend not to hear. Frail and 
haunting the melody ran through her head like a 
stream that she seemed to be following. Where? 

“And the hunter home from the hill.” She 
hummed it as she drifted along. 

The front door in the hall was open. She saw 
the narrow pebbled path wan in the young moon¬ 
light, the small squares of lawn on either side, a 
darker blob of flower bed, and the lilac bush to the 
right. The murmur of voices came from the porch 
on the left side of the house. Someone laughed. 
How small and tidy it all looked, calm in the night, 
undisturbed by delicate fragrances, by the distant 
tang of salt. 

She saw him. He stood motionless, tall and dark 
against the lilac bush. She went to him quickly. 


290 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


2 

He didn’t move when she spoke to him. But his 
big hand fell on her shoulder. 

Oh, the fragile scent of lilac! These simple scents 
of earth and blossom that had been wafted across 
the exiled years to reach her here and now. Nos¬ 
talgia. For what and why? 

“Funny thing,” he said. “I’ve been wonderin’— 
feelin’ sort of restless—wonderin’ what the devil 
it’s all about.” Words like the tap-tapping of a 
blind man’s staff, groping along strange high-walled 
ways. 

“What it’s all about, Hal dear?” But she thought 
she understood. And the melody ran through her 
like a rope that held their battered little boat in 
harbour. 

His hand was heavy on her shoulder. “You were 
singin’ in there, and I got to thinking of the old 
days. We’ve had some good times, haven’t we, dear 
thing?” She heard the appeal in his low roughened 
voice, and felt, as if in her own cheeks, the dark 
blood of regret surging. He was so huge beside 
her. 

She had feared this. She had feared that the 
time would come. But so soon? “Hal dear, aren’t 
you happy here?” It was a whisper. 

His hand dropped to his side. “I don’t want to 
be an ungrateful beast,” he muttered. “It’s a rip- 


HOME 


291 

pin’ place. Jolly little house and all. And your 
mater’s a bit of all right. That fellow Morrison’s 
a great old bird, too. It’s that rot I talked at din¬ 
ner—” He turned as if he couldn’t bear the scent of 
lilac. “Got me going, don’t you know.” 

Touch him gently. Yes, she knew. It was the 
night—in her blood, too. Missing something— 
missing. They ought to go in. 

“D’you remember that night at Montigny, Nita? 
—you and me. Remember I only had fifty francs 
in my pocket? Couldn’t even order a decent wine. 
Not half bad the dinner, though. Jolly sittin’ there 
on that bit of terrace watchin’ the river, what’s its 
name.” 

She remembered. They had been alone in the 
Vanne Rouge that evening of a May moon. A little 
table for two close to the silvery River Loing. The 
old lame waiter had treated them as lovers. And 
they had taken an old boat with red cushions. Oh, 
that winding river, and the thin rushes like wands, 
and the closed water lilies I And when they got back 
to their cheap hotel in Paris, Hal had just six 
francs left. How unreal it made everything seem 
here! She gave a little laugh that was like a sob. 

“D’you remember, Hal, that Christmas we spent 
at Fontainebleau? You were flush then. You were 
—” Ah, yes, he was indeed, thanks to a successful 
little business deal with a Belgian. She hadn’t known 
about that until afterwards. 

Hal was staring up at the Stamford sky. She 


292 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


slipped her hand in his and slowly, as if they were 
going somewhere, they moved around the lilac bush, 
farther from the porch. 

“The Hotel de France et d’Angleterre,” he mur¬ 
mured, and looking up at him, she saw the sudden 
boyish gleam of his teeth. “Put us in a bridal 
suite, didn’t they, old dear? Top-hole all those 
prints and that Louis-” 

“Louis XVI,” she supplied. 

“Museum stuff. But, oh Lord, that Romanee 
Conti, 1900, and that canard au oranges -” 

Fontainebleau in winter—all silver tones and 
musing pools and grave dreamy avenues, and ghosts 
of gallant kings who went a-hunting and wooing. 
Major and Mrs. Brassington-Welsh walking through 
the twilights there. 

She started at the squawk of a motor horn. They 
were standing now on the kitchen side of the house 
where lilies of the valley grew under the porch. 
Through the kitchen window she saw the Polish 
maid pottering about, her flat face a dull white 
plaque. What was the use of going back and back? 
It only hurt, a queer obscure ache. “Hal, we must 
really go in.” 

From the next house a phonograph brayed “The 
Sheik.” They were dancing. She heard the shuffle 
of feet, and young laughter sprayed the air. 

“There was a night in Pesth. Remember, Nita? 
We sat on the roof of the Ritz drinking Moet et 
Chandon, 1906. Lookin’ out at old Buda and down 




HOME 293 

on the Danube. You said it was like the blue of 
carbon paper, and any minute you expected the stars 
to tear larger holes in the sky. And that Gypsy 
chap in the red coat played for you. Cost me a 
thousand kronen to stop him.” 

“Hal, don’t—oh, don’t!” Why did he do this to 
her? She heard the foreign songs and saw the 
foreign faces. Her hands went out to push them 
away. They had no place here. 

Hal was bending oyer her. He gripped her by 
the elbows and held her fast. The orderly pattern 
of houses and gardens seemed to recede. He blotted 
them out. He blotted out Stamford. He looked at 
her so strangely. She looked back, and there was 
nothing hidden between them. 

The phonograph next door had stopped. The 
thin quaver of night insects rustled in the young 
grass. She heard the homely rattle of dishes in the 
kitchen and, distantly, the rumble of a train. Hadn’t 
she suffered enough? 

“Yes, and what about those other nights—and 
days?” They were all there in the face she lifted 
to his. 

He turned aside. He let her go. 

“Oh, Hal,—my dear, my dear, what would we 
have done if we hadn’t come here? Mother’s been 
so kind. I’d hoped—” Why, she was crying! 

He stood heavily, his long legs apart, his hands 
thrust deep in his pockets, his head sunk forward. 


294 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

He seemed to have closed a door, and to be tiptoeing 
away on a stealthy errand. 

She felt suddenly lonely and frightened. He could 
let her cry like this, softly, forlornly. How stupid 
and futile it was, working themselves up this way! 
She dabbed at her eyes with a tiny ball of a hand¬ 
kerchief. 

‘‘Sorry, old girl.” He stretched out his long arm 
and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry. 
I’m not takin’ you away.” 

“We ought to know better.” Everything had 
slipped back into place. She was protected, reas¬ 
sured by familiar forms. She breathed in the scent 
of lilacs. “Don’t let’s play with that old frippery 
again. It’s dangerous.” And she smiled with a wry 
curl of her wide, red mouth. “What can they be 
thinking of us? We really must go back.” 

“Right-o.” He sounded cheerful enough as he 
swung along beside her across the pebbled path, 
across the second strip of lawn. 

“They’re such dears.” It was almost an appeal. 
She wanted him so to like them. She wanted him 
so to be happy. 

The porch grew out of the house, part of it, part 
of the decent lovely evening. It didn’t need any 
willow-lined River Loing, any park of dead kings, 
any Danubes. There they were, her mother and 
her friends, just where she had left them. She 
caught the blur of light stuff in the shadowy group- 


HOME 


295 

ing of figures. “After all—after all, we couldn’t 
ask for more than just this,” she murmured. 

“What? Ah, yes—yes, indeed, my dear.” He 
bent gallantly oyer her, took her arm and squeezed it 
with a quick little tender motion. Good old boy! 

It was the kind of thing they would appreciate : 
to see herself and Hal returning arm in arm from 
a moonlight stroll. Lovers. 

The Collins boy, draped on the porch railing, 
waved. 

“Here we are—here we are.” Hal’s voice ran 
up a little hill and down again. Very English. 

“We’d given you up,” called Mr. Morrison. 

“Where have you two been?” her mother in¬ 
dulgently enquired from the depths of a wicker 
rocking chair. 

“Ask Hal.” She looked up at them, smiling. 

“Flirtin’ with my wife. Shockin’ bad form.” He 
stood there, his knowing eye cocked at her, a hand 
to his moustache. 

She brushed past him and up the steps. The circle 
closed around her. Talk of books, of music, of 
plays. How ignorant she was! She must read more. 
Go to concerts. Her mother rocked and looked 
at her fondly. 

“Yes, it was wonderful,” Mrs. Mason was say¬ 
ing. “I had season tickets. Next winter, if you like, 
Nita, we can arrange- 

Her attention drifted. Why had Hal, instead of 
joining them, settled down on the lower porch steps 


296 THE SAD ADVENTURERS 

with Mr. Morrison? She could just see the line 
of their shoulders hulking up, the shape of their 
heads, light and dark, drawn close together. 

If he got all excited again, he would have one 
of those restless nights, tossing and moaning in 
nightmares, nearly driving her crazy. 

“I’d simply love to,” she said to Mrs. Mason, 
and leaving Matilda Lacy’s passionate opinions on 
Slavic literature to be answered by someone better 
informed, she managed unobtrusively to rise and 
gain the top step. 

Yes, Hal was at it again. Hard to hear with so 
much chatter going on behind her. Pretend to gaze 
out at the night. There was nothing in the night 
for her but the rumble of his voice, the jerky ges¬ 
tures of his long arms as he sprawled below her 
talking into Morrison’s ear. 

“Fact, my dear chap. One of the Standard Oil 
men told me, himself—” drifted up to her. “Our 
English banks out there are doin’ the financing of 
American enterprise and handlin’ the dollars. Not 
a single one of your-” 

Well, there was nothing alarming in that kind 
of talk. What, after all, had she expected to hear? 

“I believe they tried it out in Constantinople and 
had to close down. Not enough business,” Mor¬ 
rison was saying. 

“Doesn’t prove anything.” Hal leaned impres¬ 
sively forward, tapping Morrison’s knee. “Bel¬ 
grade’s the place, sir. Take my word for it. Why, 



HOME 


297 


in one year two and a half million dollars came in 
with returned emigrants and remittances from the 
States. Not to mention the matter of imports and 
exports to anyone knowin’ the values. Did I say 
Belgrade?” He began to wave about and raise his 
voice. “Startin’ in a small way, I can see a chain of 
your banks spreadin’ over the Balkans—yes, and 
into Hungary, sir. I’m goin’ against my own coun¬ 
try in tellin’ you these things. But, by Jove, it isn’t 
sport, I say. It isn’t sport for us to get all the 
pickin’s. Ought to work together like brothers, eh, 
what? Ought to-” 

“Dear me, how dull!” She descended merrily 
upon them. 

“Let the poor tired banker be, Hal. He’d rather 
talk golf, I’m sure. Wouldn’t you?” She slipped 
in between them, an arch little woman with coaxing 
ways. 

Hal was furious at her for interrupting. Let him 
glower at her back then. She turned to meet John 
Morrison’s eyes. He smiled at her as he used to 
when she hunted in his pocket for sweetmeats. But 
perhaps she had made a mistake in so childishly 
breaking in. 

Hal, with an abrupt movement, had got to his 
feet, leaving her cuddled in her coquettish pose on 
the step beside Mr. Morrison. 

“Good gracious, d’ you know what time it is?” 

“Why, I had no idea-” 

The scrape of chairs and patter of voices drew 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


298 

her up with an eager—“Oh, don’t go yet.” She 
suddenly dreaded the end of the evening as if the 
warmth of these old friends, receding, would leave 
her at the mercy of a small cold wind. It had been 
such a very nice party. 

They all told her so as they stood in the hall, 
plucking out their scarves and wraps from the pile 
on the chair. 

No, she hadn’t played tennis for years, but she’d 
love to try. Yes, tea on Tuesday at five. Well, she 
didn’t know exactly, she’d have to ask Hal. 

“Hal dear-” 

She turned to find him at her elbow. “Look here, 
Nita, I’m going a bit of the way with Morrison. 
Don’t wait up for me.” 

“All right.” She tried to sound indifferent. But 
she didn’t like it, and he knew she didn’t. He might 
have stayed with her. He might have- 

“Good night, Nita, see you to-morrow.” 

“Good night, Mrs. Moffett, we’ve had the grand¬ 
est time.” 

“You don’t object to my carrying off your hus¬ 
band, I hope?” John Morrison was holding out 
his hand. There was a quizzical gleam in his eye. 

“Of course not,” she answered a trifle sharply. 

She watched them down the path, Hal bare¬ 
headed, swaggering along with his stick, Morrison’s 
short stocky figure solidly moving beside him. Two 
men escaping together. 




HOME 


299 

The others packed in the Mason motor, waved 
and shouted and were gone up the road. 

Still she stood in the open door staring at the 
orderly shapes, trim in the moonlight; at the soft 
blur of the lilac bush. Why was she sad? Not really 
sad, but fretful as if some small sly animal were 
nibbling at the peace of the night, crumbling it 
away- 

“Well, dear, it was pleasant, wasn’t it?” Her 
mother’s arm went comfortably around her. They 
stood shoulder to shoulder, looking out. Her moth¬ 
er’s white hair and grey silk were pale in the door¬ 
way. And her mother’s face was like a bit of line 
embroidery fading with quiet wear. 

Oh, yes, she had loved it all, every moment of it. 
Wonderful being home again. Wonderful- 

Her voice suddenly wavered. No reason for it— 
absolutely no reason. But she felt the mournful 
ache of tears. She felt soft and plaintive, drawn 
toward that placid breast. Only to lay her head 
there and to whimper out the bitterness of years! 

Her mother, without looking at her, said—“Ilka 
really took great pains with the dinner, didn’t she? 
I must tell her how good the mushrooms were. And 
I thought the way she fixed the mayonnaise in the 
tomatoes particularly nice.” 

Good Heavens, suppose she had let herself go! 
In a moment of self-pity to have shattered the one 
thing she had fiercely protected all these years—her 




THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


300 

mother’s pride and faith! She was rocked and sick¬ 
ened with the ebbing of her impulse. 

Was it possible that her mother had felt nothing; 
that secure and blameless in her solid world this 
quivering moment had passed her by? 

No more talk. What she wanted most was a 
white bed with coloured quilt, drawn shades and 
all the drowsy night laid softly over her. Not even 
Hal- 

How quiet her mother had become beside her! 
When had she last spoken? “Don’t you think we’d 
better go in, mother? She turned .to meet those 
faded eyes. Their dim blue was strangely wise and 
sorrowful, as if- 

But no! Impossible. There were things a woman 
like her mother could never, never guess, never 
know. Were there? 

“The lilacs were beautiful last spring,” her mother 
said. “Yes, come in, child. It’s growing late.” 

Of course, she couldn’t know. “Shall I lock the 
door, mother? Hal has a key.” Bright, busy little 
woman trotting to and fro. Not a care in the world 
—for anyone to see. 

Click, out went a light, then another. Shadows 
were warm and friendly. Snuggle close to her 
mother. Up they went together, up the familiar 
stairs, a light from the upper hall guiding them. 
Everything cosy and comfortable. 

“Is there anything you need?” Her mother lin¬ 
gered, her face soft, almost beseeching. 




HOME 


301 

“Nothing at all. Good night, dear.” Odd, that 
second of diffidence, of embarrassment, between them 
before the swift shy kiss. 

Suddenly she wanted to be alone. Hal would be 
coming, soon. And she wanted to be alone. 

She was light on her feet and vivid as she turned, 
her hand on the knob of her door. Her mother 
must think of her so—a happy Nita, happily mated, 
glad to be home. 

“Sleep well.” On that last gay note she opened 
and closed her door. Her mother’s door at the 
end of the hall closed like an echo. 

And she might have spoiled it all. Better the lie 
that she lived here night and day; the lie she dressed 
up and paraded as Major and Mrs. Brassington- 
Welsh. Contemptible—yes, perhaps. But the dreary 
disgust of it was for herself, alone. Hal didn’t 
care. Not he. She was right to spare her mother. 
Those dim blue eyes, what had they seen? Well, 
even supposing—! She hadn’t spoken. That was 
the point. 

She had been standing motionless by the door. 
And now the room came to her with its ghosts, and 
she became aware of it—this room of her girlhood. 
Passionate Anita Moffett of long ago, dreaming here, 
longing for the great world, for foreign countries 
and handsome lovers. How Hal had chuckled over 
those enlarged photographs of the Place de la Con¬ 
corde, the Forum, Westminster Abbey, and the 
Florentine Madonna in colour! Yes, it was funny 


302 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


enough, she supposed. Culture was hardly what 
she had got out of Europe. And there were her 
books on the same old shelf, neatly ranged and 
dusted—yellow-backed French novels, tales of ro¬ 
mance, of travel. 

Heigho! Slip off her dress and stays, and get 
into her kimono. Heaven knew when he would 
be back. Comfortable. Nita, greenish gold as a 
jonquil, green-eyed Nita staring in the mirror, hunt¬ 
ing for that other. If you looked at yourself long 
enough and hard enough, you saw the stranger. 

The bed was soft. She was glad to have it alone 
for a while. Hal worried her in this room. 

Blue and pink flowers still gallantly climbed their 
trellis on the wall. You followed them up and up 
to the crack in the ceiling. She missed the old cur¬ 
tains with their big pink roses in an arabesque of 
leaves. But the new chintz was very pretty. And 
the old white furniture was cheerful. Not so white 
now. A bit scratched and dented, just as she was 
for that matter. Hal, of course, had been up to his 
usual tricks. A charred spot where he had left a 
cigarette burning on the bureau. One of the best 
fringed guest towels on the chiffonier, rumpled and 
grimed with ashes. And the mark of tumblers set 
carelessly down on tables. He must have stolen 
another drink after dinner. The air smelt faintly 
of whiskey. Ah well, you couldn’t expect him to 
change. 

Growing sleepy. Hal would wake her up when 


HOME 


303 

he came back. Meanwhile it was pleasant to look 
at the Place de la Concorde in its gilt frame hanging 
opposite the bed. You walked into the picture, and 
it spread and spread, with little people moving about 
and crazy speeding motors. The smell of asphalt. 
Green gardens and fountains playing. The Arc de 
Triomphe came striding down the great avenue on 
stilts. Nearer and nearer. Careful or it would step 
on her. Colours flashing—balloons and children. 
Those weren’t balloons; they were lights, red and 
orange lights in the tracery of chestnut leaves. The 
moon was a peacock with an immense glittering 
plumage of stars. He strutted about in the sky and 
sang —“Reqevez ces Fiolettes, C’est de Vamour que 
Von achete” 

But he didn’t mean violets. He meant lilacs-; 

3 

Hal was telling her something she didn’t want to 
understand. He was going round and round it in 
narrowing circles. She sat and stared at; him, hud¬ 
dled in a corner of the old plush sofa in the sitting- 
room. The big yellow shaded lamp on the table 
beside her shone down on magazines and the slender 
vase with its single fat stalk of white hyacinth. 
The house was very quiet this evening for her mother 
had gone to a bridge club and supper was over. So 
they were alone. 

What had she been thinking of these past three 


304 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


days? She should have stood guard over him ever 
since the dinner party when he and Morrison had 
gone off together. Should have noticed the restless 
shift of his temper from brooding fits to feverish 
elation. But in this clear atmosphere she had for¬ 
gotten old habits of caution. And now- 

“I warned Morrison I hadn’t the foggiest notion 
about banking. I’m not such an awful duffer, though. 
And, after all, I’m a man of the world—what?” 
He sounded his complacent note. 

She must hear him out. Her nerves were on edge 
as he tramped from the piano to the fireplace, from 
the fireplace to the window where vines peered 
wanly in, a thin pattern stencilled by the moon. 

He stood wagging a finger. “D’you realise that 
all exchange in the Balkans is based on dollars? 
When an English bank—say in Belgrade—wants to 
buy pounds, they jolly well have to buy dollars first. 

Chap I met in London told me-” 

Oh, why was it that nothing ever stayed where 
you put it? It crept up on you and past you in the 
night, and waited around the turn of the road to 
spring at you, cunningly altered, a sly thing that 
has got the best of you. She felt suddenly helpless 
as if the hold she had here in this room were weak¬ 
ening. And she gathered herself together for the 
question she feared to ask—“Hal, what does it all 
mean ? What are you up to ?” 

That hit him fairly, and she saw the dark flush 




HOME 


305 

spread. He stood a moment fumbling at his mous¬ 
tache, his head lowered as if for a plunge. 

She waited, watching him turn and flounder in the 
stillness of the air. Outside, voices and footsteps 
passed along the road. And the night slipped in, 
she thought, like an old friend, bringing gifts of 
perfume. She was glad of the familiar things about 
her. 

But when he didn’t answer, comfort went out of 
them. Her nerves hummed a warning. The light 
of the lamp showed up the wary green of her eyes, 
the taut red line of her lips as she leaned forward 
among the cushions. 

“Hal!” She called him sharply. 

He came to her, and loomed above her looking 
down. Then she knew that once he had spoken 
nothing would ever be the same between them again. 

“Tell me.” She made herself gentle, because she 
dared not trust herself to be otherwise. 

“What else have I been doin’? Well, in plain 
English, I’m goin’ over—to Belgrade first.” His 
voice was loud and excited. Defying her. She saw 
him a blurred red and black, his arms jerking up 
and down. “Morrison’s sendin’ me. He thinks 
there’s a chance for a branch of his bank out there. 
You needn’t look at me like that, Nita. I can’t 
stand it. I can’t stay on here, rottin’ away—that’s 
what I’m doin’—just rottin’ away.” He towered 
above her, working himself into a passion. “And 
now I can go back—everything paid, mind you. All 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


306 

IVe got to do is to send in a report when I’ve looked 
around and consulted a few of the big fellows who 
know their Balkans. Why, as I told Morrison, if 
we can get a backing-” 

“As you told him?” Her lips moved stiffly. There 
was no shame in him, no pity. Rotting away here! 
That was the way he put it. 

“Now look here, Nita-” 

“I won’t go—I won’t.” She lay crumpled on the 
sofa, her face buried in the cushions. Fists clenched 
beat against the wood, against the plush. 

“You can’t make me. Go away—don’t touch 
me.” He was bending over her. Hate was in her 
like a sickness. She shuddered and ached with sob¬ 
bing. 

Out of blackness coloured fragments formed and 
whirled—ships, trains, dingy rooms, streets with 
foreign smells and voices, glary restaurants, bars, 
indifferent mocking faces and fingers pointing at 
Major and Mrs. Brassington-Welsh. Harried, 
hounded over the Continent, sinking lower and lower. 

“Nita—Nita !” He was shaking her. 

Going to Belgrade on Morrison’s money. Why, 
he never meant to go near Belgrade. Lying to her 
father’s old friend, lying to himself, lying to her. 

“Will you listen?” His fingers dug into her 
shoulders. He was forcing her around to face him. 
“I’m going alone, d’you hear me? I’m not taking 
you.” He shouted it in her ear. 

Not taking her. What did he mean? She was 




HOME 


307 

startled out of her sobbing. Spent and limp, she 
looked at him, at his hot bitter eyes, the purplish 
tinge of his cheeks, the deepened lines about nose 
and mouth. He was suffering. He deserved to suf¬ 
fer. 

He held her a moment as if he never could let her 
go. Then abruptly he released her and rose. “Yes, 
I’m leavin’ you here with your mother and your 
friends. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” His voice 
was low and harsh. 

She sat on, staring up at him, trying to grasp this 
thing. He was leaving her like a bit of old luggage. 
She had lived with him all these years. She had 
been faithful. And now he was leaving her! Home 
meant nothing to him, she meant nothing, a decent 
life meant nothing. 

“Good God, Nita, don’t take it like that. I swear 
I’m coming back. It’s only for a little while. Why, 
it’s the biggest chance I’ve ever-” 

“If you go, you’ll never come back.” Strange how 
quiet, how deadly quiet she felt now as if there were 
nothing left in her to struggle and fight. She rose 
to her feet. They were cold and dead. Finger-tips 
icy. “You’ll never come back. You know it. Once 
you get over there with money in your pocket, it 
will be the same old thing. You’ll spend it—every 
cent. And then-” 

“I tell you you’re wrong. I’ve every inten¬ 
tion-” 

“Every intention!” She couldn’t bear to look at 





THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


308 

him. The pain was at her heart like a brutal hand 
prying it loose. 

He was pleading his cause, trying to persuade 
her, trying to persuade himself. Did she think for a 
moment he would take Morrison’s money on false 
pretenses? Did she think he could play such a rotten 
trick on a man who trusted him? Wasn’t it to his 
advantage to carry through his mission, to make a 
success of it? After all, Morrison was right in send¬ 
ing him over. He knew his Europe, he knew the 
ropes. If he left her behind it was because she 
wanted to be left. He would just run over there 
and- 

Yes, that was the comfortable way he would put 
it to himself. She turned her back on him and 
walked to the window. Suppose he had gone al¬ 
ready, suppose she were standing here alone looking 
out at these homely shapes under the moon. What 
would it be like? Her mother standing beside her, 
perhaps. How peaceful the houses, the white road, 
the flowering bushes and dark patches of lawn! 
And then the pain again at her heart. 

The heavy tread of his feet sounded behind her. 
He was marching up and down. Talking. He was 
charged with honourable intentions. He had him¬ 
self in Belgrade, brilliantly conducting his business. 
He saw himself conferring with officials, with finan¬ 
ciers; saw himself bustling through the Balkans 
leaving behind him a trail of banks; saw himself 
magnificently returning to her with the mark of 



HOME 


309 


accomplishment on his noble brow. Could hear 
himself, no doubt, saying, “Didn’t I tell you-?” 

Was this, indeed, she, Nita, this pale little woman 
tamely consenting to be set aside? Letting her man 
go. Her man, sorry trickster though he might be. 
And what would become of him ? What would have 
become of both of them had they gone on? And 
without her— Suppose another woman- 

The very thought of it whirled her around. Oh, 
but there was still fight left in her! “You have it all 
fixed, haven’t you?” Her tone was as biting as she 
knew how to make it. “You’re convinced that you’re 
headed for Belgrade? Convinced of your abilities?” 

She had caught him in the middle of a windy 
gust that was blowing him over the Continent and 
back. He struggled a moment in his fine flight. “I 
was simply tellin’ you-” 

Her turn to tell him. She crossed slowly over 
to where he stood by the piano. “You spoke the 
other night of Colonel Watkins. I infer that he’s 
one of the ‘big fellows’ who, you’ve no doubt as¬ 
sured our friend Morrison, will welcome you with 
open arms.” 

He didn’t like that. “I’d have to see him, of 
course. Why the devil shouldn’t he see me? I’ve 
got a perfectly sound proposition. Morrison’s 
name-” 

“Morrison’s name!” Her little laugh was like 
the flick of a whip. “Yours is better known over 
there, my dear.” Wiser to hurt him now. Make 





THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


310 

him see himself in the knowing merciless light of her 
green eyes. Hurt him, even while it sickened her 
to uncover his soul. She had only begun. “Do you 
remember when and how you met Colonel Wat¬ 
kins ?” 

He gave her an ugly look. “I don’t see-” 

“You met him,” she pursued, “at Anna’s Bar 
in Vienna, didn’t you? You forced yourself on him 
a bit too obviously. And then your amiable friend, 
Mr. Wertner, unfortunately joined you. And the 
next time you met Colonel Watkins on the street, 
I seem to remember, he cut you dead.” 

“Damn it all, what’s that got to do with it?” 
he blustered. “You mind your own business, Nita.” 

“And the others?” she went on without pity. 
“McKelvey had you run out of Sofia. The Consul 
in Bucharest is a brother of young Daniels whom you 
trimmed so neatly in Cairo. And you dare to tell 
me that you expect to show your face to any of 
those men?” Her voice gave her away, gave away 
the pain, the revolt. “How can you, Hal ? Oh, how 
can you? Because Morrison is our friend, because 
he met you here in this house, because he’s too en¬ 
thusiastic, too trusting, you’ve made him believe all 
these fairy tales. You almost believe them yourself. 
I give you credit for that.” Fight the weariness that 
was coming over her. “Deep in your heart you 
know. You won’t confess it? Then I’ll tell you. 
I am telling you—” He made her do it. She faced 
him, her head flung back, her voice lashing him. 



HOME 


3ii 

“You’re ready to use anything as a pretext—any¬ 
thing—to get back. You can’t stand being decent, 
you can’t stand decent people. You’re a poor old 
actor who only knows his one part, and he’ll play 
it best on a familiar stage. There isn’t one real 
thing in you—any more. The fine edges have been 
dulled and you only like what is coarse and com¬ 
mon—drinking and boasting in filthy rotten bars— 
being a good fellow, you call it—the kind who 
fleeces other good fellows if he can.” Through a 
mist she saw his face, grey, twisted. Well, he must 
listen now. 

“You’re not as clever as you used to be. That’s 
the difference. And over there, they know your 
type. You won’t pass easily any more. Have you 
forgotten what the Contessa said? Have you for¬ 
gotten Venice and Mr. Gale? Do you realise that 
the police in every city on the Continent have been 
warned to watch for you? Not that you’re worth 
catching. You’re only a poor kind of adventurer 
now, my dear. Europe is full of them. So are the 
gutters.” 

“Nita !—you—you—” He was leaning against 
the piano breathing like a runner who has run his 
race. The blood was back in his face, beating and 
throbbing. “So that’s what you think of me?” His 
voice was thick as if he were choking. He made an 
effort and stepped up to her, swaying and breath¬ 
ing— 

What had she done to him! She wanted to 



312 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


stretch out her arms, to ask his forgiveness. But 
there was no strength in her. It was she who was 
defenceless before him. He was seeing into her; 
seeing into the haunted places where the pain and 
disgust of years stirred among a debris of shabby 
scenery. He was seeing her poor prayers tattered 
and torn from the book. He was seeing the years 
ahead as she, herself, now saw them. 

“Can’t we ever be happy?” she cried in final ap¬ 
peal. 

He answered her sombrely. “You’d have done 
well to let me go with a bit of illusion left. I might 
have carried through. I might have. But you’re 
right.” Bitter his voice and bitter his eyes as he 
turned away. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever 
cared tuppence about, and look at the wreck I’ve 
made of your life.” 

She should comfort him, she supposed, as she had 
done so many times before. But what comfort was 
there? They had spoken the truth. And the time 
for lies was passed. 

He waited for her to come to him. When she 
did not come, he went to her, and stood over her 
again, his face gaunt and grey in the lamplight. 
“You’ll be better off without me,” he said hoarsely. 
“That’s why I’m gettin’ out—that’s how much I 
care—that’s how much! You don’t believe me, do 
you?” 

If only she could believe him! “Yes, you love me, 
Hal—in your way. But that’s no reason for leav- 


HOME 


313 


ing me.” Oh, what was the use of picking over 
their life?—two beggars quarrelling over the con¬ 
tents of a rag bag. 

“Love you in my way! A hell of a way, isn’t 
it? That’s what you mean. A hell of a way—” 
He was growing wilder. 

She shut her eyes, but could not shut out* the 
tramp of his feet coming and going. If he did this 
thing, if he went off with Morrison’s money, leaving 
her to explain to her mother, to explain to her fath¬ 
er’s old friend— No, he couldn’t do such a thing. 
He couldn’t. 

“I can’t stand it, I tell you.” His voice, raised 
and desperate, forced her to look at him. 

“Please, Hal,—please,—haven’t we said enough ?” 
Her head ached intolerably. 

“We’ve said too much. We’ve said it all.” He 
strode past her to the doorway. “I’m finished. Un¬ 
derstand? I’m finished,” he shouted, and flung out 
of the room. 

Finished! Had one ever finished? She stayed 
where she was. She heard him heavy on the stairs. 
He didn’t mean it, of course. She heard him march¬ 
ing overhead in their room. The night came softly 
in, and the old things around her seemed to settle 
back in the hush after his going. She felt mournful 
among them, and very lonely. 

Silence gathered about her, pressing down. Did 
one ever know? Did she really know? Suddenly 


THE SAD ADVENTURERS 


3 H 

she was afraid as she had never been afraid in all 
her life. 

What was he doing up there? Go to him quickly. 
Go to him. 

“Hal!” She called from the stairs. 

No answer. 

She called again as she hurried up the hall to the 
door of her room. He must have heard her. Why 
didn’t he answer? 

Someone was in there, padding stealthily about. 
He hadn’t slipped away then. Just trying to frighten 
her. Doing it on purpose. 

She stood outside the door, a tense little figure in 
black. Very angry. 

“You needn’t think I don’t hear you.” She raised 
her voice sharply. “When you want to talk sen¬ 
sibly, you’ll find me downstairs.” 

Still no answer. 

What would her mother think if she came back 
and found her here, and in such a state? The 
thought of her mother and of Morrison drove her 
frantic. “I might have known you were bluffing as 
usual,” she flung as a final taunt, and with bitter¬ 
ness in her heart she turned to go. 

What was that! A muffled report, and then si¬ 
lence spreading and spreading through her, through 
the house. She was part of that awful stillness— 
stricken without power to move. 

Must open the door. Open it. 


HOME 


315 

“Oh, my God!—oh, my God—Hal!—oh, God!” 
She stumbled across the room. 

He lay by the window, horribly big and dark 
under the bright chintz curtains. 

No, not this as an end! Not this. 

He was looking at her, his poor eyes beseeching 
as shei crouched beside him, trying to lift him, 
trying- 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to—thought I’d scare you— 
thing went off—” His poor voice growing fainter 
and fainter. “Don’t cry, old girl—jolly well de¬ 
serve it—beastly bungling—my last-” 

Call him back. Call him—“Hal—Hal!” 

But he had gone from the house without her. 
Just as he said he would. Just as he said—•— 


THE END 












































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































